Return of Elliott Marston
by strugglingauthor
Summary: Sequel to Quigley Down Under and a Villain's Redemption
1. Not the Expected Arrival

Elliott Marston stood on the top of the hill and stared at the far end of his valley. He squinted against the glare of the late afternoon sun.  
  
The wagons were already three days late. He would have a reckoning from his men about the delay. That was how he ran things on Marston Ranch: he would be in total control of his domain and woe betide any man who thought differently.  
  
Of course, one man had thought differently and very recently, too. Marston scowled. Just the thought of Quigley could ruin his day and he was determined to be in a good mood today to greet his new guest.  
  
Not that Quigley had had everything his own way. His mood lightened a bit at the memory. As if he would give a man a gun with real bullets in the chamber; the idea was laughable. The first two bullets were the real things; the others were blanks. It was a pity about his two men; he made a mental note to let the sheep loose on their graves to make sure the grass was trimmed.  
  
No, he had to be honest with himself. The Quigley episode was not one he could look back on with pride. But that was in the past now. The only thing that really mattered was the future. And the resumption of his plans.  
  
A slight movement caught his eye. He leaned forward and peered at the horizon. Yes, there it was again. The wagons had arrived.  
  
He turned and rushed down the back slope of the hill where the incline wasn't as steep. Reaching his horse in a cloud of red dust, for once not caring how disheveled his appearance would be as a result, Marston swung himself into the saddle. Grinning from ear to ear, he spurred his horse forward and headed for his ranch.  
  
The oxen were ponderous and the wagons slow; he had plenty of time to repair the ravages of the dust. He waited on his porch as the newcomers entered the gates. A sudden memory of greeting Matthew Quigley on a similar day came into his head; ruthlessly he banished the image.  
  
The wagons pulled to a halt. Marston rushed across the yard. Fred and Jack looked at him, nodding their heads in greeting. He gave them the barest nod in return, his attention focused on the back of the lead wagon. Had he been more observant, he would have seen that they looked nervous.  
  
The sun was in his eyes again as he came to a halt. "Welcome! Welcome to Marston Ranch." He squinted and reached out a hand in greeting. "I'm glad you've finally arrived."  
  
A figure in the back of the wagon sat up, a dark silhouette against the sun. It stood up then jumped to the ground. To his surprise, Marston found himself looking down into the other's face.  
  
He shifted his position to get a look at the features of the newcomer. Long blonde hair, tied back in a sweeping ponytail, vivid blue eyes like the sky after a winter rain, a curvaceous figure in denims and a linen shirt: for a moment the shock rendered him speechless.  
  
"You." he croaked. Clearing his throat he tried again. "You're.Sam Flanagan?!?!"  
  
"Yes, I am." She had a beautiful smile, with dimples in both cheeks.  
  
"The gunslinger!?!?!"  
  
"Well, no. Actually, that's Dad. I have to explain about that." She reached into the back of the wagon and pulled out a thick bedroll, slinging it over one shoulder. "Could we discuss this somewhere there's more shade?"  
  
"Uh, yes, of course." He could not seem to stop blinking. "Right this way. Er, dinner is almost ready."  
  
She adjusted the bedroll so that it was easier to carry. With a smile at the men still sitting motionless at the front of the wagon, she headed for the double doors of the house.  
  
Fred and Jack watched the rancher and the lady disappear into the house. Fred tilted his hat back and whistled low. "Boy, I would surely like to be a fly on the wall at that dinner."  
  
Jack nodded. "The Boss is in for an interesting evening." 


	2. Dinner Discussion

Sam looked around the parlor with approval. "You have a lovely home, Mr. Marston." She sipped her whiskey and water with lady-like delicacy. The facets of the glass caught shards of candlelight and threw them back into the room.  
  
Marston shifted in his chair. "I'm glad you like it, Miss Flanagan." With an effort he managed not to gulp his own drink.  
  
It had taken most of two hours but the shock had eventually worn off. There had been an unspoken agreement between them not to discuss the situation until after dinner. The result was one of the most enjoyable meals he had ever experienced. But now he wanted answers from his very unexpected guest.  
  
His initial impression remained. She was a very attractive young woman in her mid-twenties. When she returned from washing up before dinner, he saw that her hair was even more golden without a layer of dust from the trip. Her personality was vivacious, her smile charming. The only sign that she was less than fully confident of her reception was the strained look in her eyes.  
  
After a minute examination of the carved mantel over the fireplace, she faced him directly. "I suppose I owe you an explanation, don't I?"  
  
He set his glass down on the table with a bit more force than he intended. "You owe me nothing. I would never demand anything from such a charming guest." He leaned forward and clasped his hands in front of him. "However -" He cocked an eyebrow in her direction. "- just to satisfy my own curiosity, you understand - is your name really Sam?"  
  
Her dimples appeared briefly. "Yes. Dad was so sure I was going to be a boy that he told everyone he knew that I would be his namesake. Then when I was born he didn't want to go back on his word."  
  
In spite of himself, he smiled back. "A man of his word, indeed."  
  
"Of course, when the boys were born, he kicked himself for giving away the 'best' name." Her ponytail bobbed in the air when she laughed.  
  
The atmosphere in the room was lighter now. Marston made his move. "You don't have to give me an explanation. I am the richer for our acquaintance. I can't remember the last time I enjoyed myself so much over a meal." He walked over to the sideboard and opened a box on the top. After selecting a cigar and rolling it between his fingers, he strolled back to his chair. "I'll miss it when you go back to Fremantle next week."  
  
"I thought the work would take longer than that. In your letter you offered a twelve-month contract." Her fingers clutched her now empty glass. "You are very hard on your employees."  
  
"You are not my employee." He leaned forward and lit his cigar at the nearest candle. "I did not hire you."  
  
"You hired Sam Flanagan to come out here and take on a job for you." She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. "That's what it says in the letter you sent me. I have it right here."  
  
He swallowed and gripped his cigar tighter. It was hard to believe that she was wearing the same sort of linen shirt he wore for working outside. He had never noticed before that they were so roomy in the front.  
  
"Miss Flanagan, I sent that letter to a man with an established reputation as an armed security agent. This.." He struggled for the word. "..substitution is not acceptable to me." He picked up his glass and drained it.  
  
"You sent that letter to a man who no longer exists." Sam looked away from him to the fire.  
  
"He's dead?" Marston frowned.  
  
"May God forgive me, sometimes I wish that were true." Her head fell forward into her hands and her shoulders shook with sobs. 


	3. Reflections Under the Stars

It was always worth waiting until midnight for the brightest stars to come out. Leaving the confines of the porch, Marston walked over to the stand of trees at the corner of the house. The deep shade promised greater privacy. He sat on the bench, drew deeply on his cigar, blew out a cloud of smoke and stared up into the sky.  
  
He thought about the events of the evening. Up until now his life had been free of beautiful young women who burst into tears in his parlor. He was not sure he welcomed the innovation.  
  
*********************************************  
  
Sam had wept for some time. He sat like a statue, waiting for the storm to subside, trying to think of something to say that would comfort an unknown and grievous affliction. Finally, she swiped her hand across her eyes and sniffed.  
  
"He might as well be dead, sir. He suffered a stroke a few months ago. He just lies in bed, getting weaker..." She faltered, gesturing with her hand to cover the momentary lapse. "He can barely talk. We have to feed him like a baby."  
  
"I'm sorry." He handed her his handkerchief. It seemed as inadequate as his words.  
  
She dabbed her eyes with the cloth. "It was pretty touch and go for a while. The doctor said he had too much fight in him to give up in the first round. But he's getting better."  
  
It seemed important to her that he acknowledge this, so he nodded in an encouraging manner.  
  
"Every day he's a little stronger. The doctor said not but we can see it." The handkerchief was balled up in one clenched fist. "Dad had just finished a job for the bank so we had some money to get by. But the money didn't last. Liam is twelve and old enough to get some work in the livery stables. I did some sewing for ladies and we moved to cheaper rooms. But it wasn't enough."  
  
She rose to her feet and paced the carpet. "That's why your letter was the answer to our prayers. Just out of the blue like that." At the end of the room she turned and stared back anxiously. "Did you really mean it? Thirty gold pieces a month for twelve months?"  
  
"Yes, I meant it." The whiskey decanter on the table sparkled in the firelight and he rose to refill his glass.  
  
The heels of her boots rapped quickly across the floorboards. "I can do it, Mr. Marston. Whatever work you wanted my father to do, I can do it. He taught all of us to shoot. I learned everything from him." She stopped when she reached his side. "Please, Mr. Marston, give me this job. I need it."  
  
The whiskey gurgled into his glass. He replaced the stopper with great care. "It's no kind of work for a woman." Leaving a desperate silence behind him, he walked back to his chair.  
  
*******************************************************  
  
His cigar had gone out. The sound of footsteps crunching over gravel distracted him from his search for a match.  
  
"Evening, Boss." A darker shadow paused in the gloom. "Takin' some air?"  
  
Marston peered into the gloom. "Fred? What are you doing up?"  
  
"Just too tired to sleep, I reckon." The shadow came closer and assumed the shape and features of a worker on a sheep ranch. "That trip gets longer and harder every time I make it."  
  
"You're getting old, Fred. Time I put you out to pasture."  
  
Silence fell between them and joined the night around them. Marston relit his cigar.  
  
"What the hell were you thinking of?" He said finally.  
  
"Boss, weren't no way that woman was stayin' behind in town. She pulled a gun on Jack when we wouldn't take her in the wagon." Fred spat into the darkness. It was a gesture redolent of contempt for women who didn't know their place in life.  
  
"So you brought her here."  
  
"Well, we figured she'd have to take it from you." The sheep worker propped one foot on the bench. "If you tell her she ain't hired, there's nuthin' she kin do about it."  
  
"Mmmm." Marston let the remark pass.  
  
"You told her yet?"  
  
"Oh, several times. But she's stubborn." Marston exhaled a chestful of smoke with a deep sigh. "And desperate."  
  
"What are you gonna do? Beggin' yer pardon, sir." Fred hazarded a quick look, then spat again quickly, lest he be thought to be too interested in the answer.  
  
Marston stood up suddenly and threw his cigar away. "Right now I'm going to turn in. And I'd advise you to do the same." There was a faint hissing sound as it landed in the oxen's water trough.  
  
"Yes, sir." The man's chagrin was apparent even in the dark. "Night, then."  
  
Marston nodded. He walked back to the house and entered the main room through the carved front door. Walking with gentle steps down the main hallway, he stopped halfway and cocked an ear. His precautions were unnecessary; his guest was still awake.  
  
She had not yet succeeded in crying herself to sleep. 


	4. Trouble in the Kitchen

"Mister Marston! Mister Marston!"  
  
Marston stopped splashing water on his face and cocked an ear. The shouting had a frenzied quality to it.  
  
"Please sir! Come quick! We got big trouble!" The back door opened with a slam and the petitioner was suddenly in the hall. An agitated rapping on his bedroom door followed.  
  
He tossed his towel into the wash basin and threw open the door. It was O'Flynn, wringing his hands and dancing from foot to foot. "Mister Marston, Toby says you got to come! It's real bad, sir!"  
  
Horrific visions of dingoes in the lambing pens flashed through his mind. "What's wrong?"  
  
"It's Lushy, sir. She's..." O'Flynn gulped in air. "She's decided to make a real breakfast again."  
  
Marston stared in disbelief. "Oh...my...God!" He grabbed his boots, pulled them on and set out for the cookhouse at a fast sprint, damning Matthew Quigley with every step.  
  
The American sharpshooter had made an indelible impression on Marston Ranch and its inhabitants. In addition to killing a number of the men, he had inspired the aborigines who worked on the ranch to return to their own people and homes. The result was that changes had to be made in the way things were run.  
  
The men had been replaced without too much trouble or expense. Additional women had been recruited to serve the men in their own unique feminine way. But to date Marston had been unsuccessful in finding a cook to replace his aboriginal servant. Experienced and skilled cooks preferred to remain in the towns where they were assured of work and renown. Few were willing to venture into the outback to slave over hot ranges under the burning sun for ranch hands with simple tastes and poor palates.  
  
A compromise had been worked out with the women whereby they would take turns producing the meals every day. The result was that the variety of food offered was minimal but edible, and the grumbling of the reluctant chefs was kept within bounds.  
  
Except for Lushy.  
  
Lushy had arrived at the ranch in the same wagon as Quigley and Crazy Cora. Her name was really Lucy but with her strong southern American drawl and her constant state of slight inebriation, it came out sounding like Lushy and so it remained.  
  
While the other women preferred to ignore anything that didn't pertain to themselves, Lushy had expressed a real interest in the workings of the ranch. She asked questions about the animals, listened keenly to the men describe their work and could be relied on to offer personal rewards or consolations commensurate with what kind of day they'd had. That she often forgot what she was told within hours of hearing it, that she gave the sheep and oxen individual pet names like "Sugarball" and "Sweetcakes" and that she referred to the dingoes that preyed on the livestock as "doggies" were admitted by the men but forgiven; they were felt to be small quirks in an otherwise attractive personality.  
  
She was also the only woman who threw herself into the cooking chores. She perused the old cookbooks she found and searched out innovative recipes. She cheerfully spent hours over the range in even the hottest weather, experimenting with different ingredients and flavors. If her talents had approximated even one-tenth of her enthusiasm, the men would have been in culinary paradise.  
  
The crowd of men around the cookhouse door fell back when Marston arrived. They greeted him with silent, pathetic stares. Toby, the ranch foreman, exhaled with unmistakable relief. "She's in there, Boss," he whispered.  
  
"Let me handle this." Marston paused on the threshold. "Keep away from the windows and don't let her see you. We don't want her to get spooked and do something rash."  
  
The men stampeded around the corner of the building. Marston pushed open the door and entered the cookhouse.  
  
The room was empty except for the half-dressed woman stirring something in a bowl on the worktable, humming to herself. A large pot stood on the range, wafting the wholesome scent of oatmeal on the air. Beside it a large cast iron frying pan filled almost to the brim with lard sizzled and spat evilly.  
  
Lushy looked up with an unfocussed smile. "Mahnin', Mistah Maahr-ston. You lookin' for breakfast?" She groped with one hand along the table and lifted a half-full glass to her lips.  
  
Marston cursed silently. Someone had left the stockroom door unlocked again and allowed Lushy to get her hands on the rum.  
  
"Good morning, Lushy. Are you making something special?" He inched his way to the end of the table and smiled back at her.  
  
"Sho' nuff, sir. Some real down-home fritters." She saluted him with the now empty glass. "Stick to yer ribs lak a mustard plaster."  
  
"That's very thoughtful of you." He strolled along the length of the table. "You take good care of us."  
  
"You bet, sir." She giggled and winked.  
  
The end of the table was within his reach when she suddenly whirled over to the stove, clutching the bowl with one hand. Marston held his breath as she fumbled with the spoon, her sleeve dipping close to the hot fat. At least she'd left her glass behind and there was no sign of a bottle.  
  
"It jest plum breaks mah heart to keep feeding those hard-workin' boys that mush every mahnin'." Lushy dug out a spoonful of batter the size of her fist and held it over the frying pan. "Stuff ain't fit for hawgs back home."  
  
"But the men like it, Lushy." He looked at the large pot out of the corner of one eye. The oatmeal was close to bubbling over. "It's really very good."  
  
"Mistah Maahr-ston, you are in for a real treat." The batter hit the lard with a splat and hissed like a wounded tiger. She leaned over the pan to examine the results. Marston was behind her in two quick strides.  
  
Small flames appeared where dollops of fat had landed on the range. Lushy frowned at them. "Don't want a fire." She reached up to the shelf above and pulled down the missing bottle of rum. "Stuff's mostly water anyway." She threw the contents on the heated surface.  
  
WHUMPFF!  
  
A sheet of flame raced up the wall and along a portion of the ceiling.  
  
"Well, damn!" Lushy stared open-mouthed at the range. Marston wrapped his arms around her waist and leaped backward.  
  
Catching the back of his knees against the nearest chair, he landed on the floor with Lushy on top of him. He opened his eyes and saw a column of flame rising from the frying pan. Black smoke poured out of the windows and door. On the range the oatmeal gave a loud burp and boiled over the edge of the large pot. Outside the nearest window, a collective groan was heard.  
  
Ten minutes later, Sam Flanagan was shaken out of a troubled sleep by Elliott Marston. She goggled at the bedraggled apparition beside the bed, reeking of smoke, animal fat and rum.  
  
"Miss Flanagan, if you want a job on my ranch, I'm prepared to discuss terms." 


	5. The New Gal Fits In

"I'm not sure I understand, Mr. Marston." Sam tried not to sniff at the bowl of oatmeal in front of her. The scorched aroma was less noticeable if she leaned back in her chair.  
  
"It's quite simple, Miss Flanagan. I can't possibly retain your services as a gunslinger." He sipped on his tea, carefully balancing the cup on the tips of his fingers. "But we have a great need for someone who can cook. You do know how to cook, don't you?"  
  
The eager look in his eyes mystified her. "Yes, of course. I've cooked for my family since my stepmother died. But...I don't mean to be rude...I need to know..." She broke off unhappily.  
  
"You mean, how much? Shall we say 20 gold pieces a month?" He frowned at his plate and gingerly picked up a piece of toast.  
  
She gasped. "That is very generous, Mr. Marston. Cooks in Fremantle don't make even a portion of that amount. In that case, I would be pleased to accept your offer."  
  
They ate in silence for a few minutes.  
  
"Are you sure I can't redo those bandages for you?"  
  
"Yes, thank you. That would be very kind."  
  
***********************************************************  
  
Sam moved her belongings over to the small bedroom attached to the cookhouse that morning. She was barely in time to prepare an adequate lunch for the men. By dinnertime, she was able to provide more substantial fare.  
  
The other women on the ranch were pleased with the arrangement and surrendered their responsibilities without protest. There was some concern about Lushy's feelings but she seemed to take the situation well and could be seen popping in and out of the cookhouse throughout the day.  
  
By the time Marston left the men in the yard after dinner, a general feeling of contentment once again pervaded the ranch.  
  
He sat on the porch and took a deep breath of the cool evening air. He had solved one problem, at least for a while, but he was still without a gunman and time was running out. Important people would be demanding explanations and he didn't have them.  
  
Darkness was falling fast and lamps were visible through the various bunkhouse windows. They glowed like molten lumps of gold in the encroaching gloom.  
  
"Evenin', Mistah Maahr-ston."  
  
He sighed. "Good evening, Lushy."  
  
She swept out of the shadows and up to the porch. He watched carefully but she negotiated the steps and kept most of her balance as she sat beside him.  
  
"Ah'm awful sorry about this mahnin'. Want me to come in tonight and make it up to you?"  
  
"Uh, no thanks, that won't be necessary."  
  
"Okey-doke. No harm in askin'." She wrapped her arms around her drawn-up knees and tilted her head back to enjoy the wind. "I like that new gal."  
  
"Do you?"  
  
"Asked me a whole bunch o' questions about the stockrooms an' the provisions an' where everythin' was kept. Said she was really grateful for mah help." Lushy gave him a sidelong glance. "She was tryin' to make sure that I felt important and that mah feelings weren't hurt."  
  
Marston looked at her with some respect. It occurred to him that it was important for a woman in her profession to be able to read people accurately.  
  
"Asked me about you, too."  
  
Searching his jacket for a cigar, he paused and glanced up quickly. "Oh?"  
  
"How the ranch is doin'. How long you been a rancher. Where you come from. Real interested in how often you go to town."  
  
"Is that so?" He found the cigar and took his time lighting it. The smoke drifted over their heads on its way to the clouds. "And what did you tell her?"  
  
"Told her the truth: that I didn't know nuthin' about you and not much about the ranch." She gave him another look from under her lids and this time the shrewdness in her eyes was undeniable. "After all, you're the boss."  
  
"Yes, I am. And most people around here know it."  
  
"You bet, sir." She rose to her feet and brushed off her skirts. The sky was completely dark now and the sound of night insects was growing louder. In one of the bunkhouses two men were laughing and someone began to tune a fiddle.  
  
Lushy swept down the steps and into the yard. She looked back at him with her sauciest smile. "Don't be too hard on the new gal, sir. She's just tryin' to feel her way around the place."  
  
"Good night, Lushy."  
  
"Night, sir." She paused at the edge of the total darkness. "You're sure you don't want -?"  
  
"I'm sure. Thank you anyway."  
  
She shrugged and disappeared into the night.  
  
Marston leaned back and stared up into the sky. So his newest employee was curious about him, was she? He blew out a cloud of smoke.  
  
By the time he was ready to turn in, he had made up his mind. He would wait a day or two until she was settled in. Then he would make a strong effort to get to know Sam Flanagan.  
  
Intimately. 


	6. Army Intelligence

The dust cloud was visible long before the column of horses appeared on the horizon. Shimmering heat waves obscured the riders so it was hard to estimate their number but their red coats clearly identified them.  
  
The British Army was paying a social call on Marston Ranch.  
  
"Always single file, always with those damn uniforms buttoned up to their chins." Toby balanced his chair on its back legs and watched the procession. "It's a wonder their heads don't explode."  
  
Sam smiled at the picture this conjured up. "Are you implying disrespect for our soldiers, sir?"  
  
"Not me. Mr. Marston wouldn't like that." The ranch foreman spat over the railing into the bushes. "The army's his biggest customer."  
  
Marston appeared on the porch through the double doors that led from his study. A man ran across the yard to open the gate. The three riders pulled up in front of the main house and dismounted.  
  
"Really?" Sam looked thoughtful. "That must be a very lucrative contract."  
  
"It is for a fact." Ned looked up from the halter he was working on. "The Boss got rich feedin' the army."  
  
They fell silent as they watched Marston greet the visitors with obvious good-fellowship. Laughter floated through the air as the group disappeared into the house.  
  
"You'll be busy pretty soon, Miss Flanagan. There'll be a special dinner up at the house tonight." Toby lowered his chair to the ground and rose to his feet. "Best be gettin' back to work myself."  
  
Sam continued to stare at the house as the men drifted away to their duties around the ranch. Her employer was quite an enigma. She saw him several times a day, sometimes for lengthy periods, but she was no closer to understanding the man who'd so abruptly changed his mind about hiring her six weeks ago.  
  
She picked up a potato and began peeling it. He was certainly a reserved man, never revealing his thoughts with his expressions and rarely with his words. Such a man could make a fortune playing poker at Belle's Palace.  
  
"Oh!" She gasped, then sucked at her pricked thumb. That's what you get for not concentrating, she thought. Keep your mind on your business, girl. Don't think about your problems.  
  
For the next half-hour she devoted herself to the business of potatoes. The peels piled up on the ground beside her chair as the afternoon sun advanced across the sky.  
  
"Miz Flanagan?" O'Flynn poked his head around the corner of the building. "The Boss wants to see you."  
  
*************************************************  
  
The main house seemed to be an alien place. The habitual quiet atmosphere had been occupied by the noise of male laughter and heavy footfalls.  
  
Sam waited inside the main hallway, uncertain about her destination. Usually she would have proceeded to the study but Marston could be meeting his guests there if this were a business visit.  
  
A door opened down the hall and the rancher appeared. "Ah, there you are. There'll be four of us dining tonight, Miss Flanagan." He walked down the hall and hesitated. "Let's talk in here." Pulling open the door to the dining room, he stepped aside for her to enter.  
  
Footsteps thudded down the hall behind them. "Elliott! I say, do you have -" The soldier stopped in his tracks. "Oh, beg pardon. Didn't realize you were busy."  
  
"Not at all. Miss Flanagan, may I present Major Rodney Ashley-Pitt, of Her Majesty's Western Australia regiment. Major, this is Sam Flanagan who is currently employed on my ranch."  
  
The major's brows rose. "Sam Flanagan?" He repeated. "That is a name not unknown to me." His gaze went down her body with insulting slowness, then returned to her face. She flushed under the examination.  
  
Marston frowned. "I believe you are referring to Miss Flanagan's father. He has a reputation in certain circles for his expertise in security matters."  
  
"Of course. Your father. How remiss of me. Honored to meet you, Miss Flanagan." He stepped back and started to retreat down the hall.  
  
"Would you excuse me a minute?" Marston held the door open again. "I won't be long." Sam nodded and escaped into the dining room. He strode off after the major.  
  
The soldier looked up with a smile as his host entered the study. "Interesting taste you have, Elliott." He winked.  
  
"Major, I do not think Miss Flanagan appreciated your attitude. I know I don't." It was an understatement. The other's suggestive stare had fired his temper like nothing had in months. "My employees are not to be insulted."  
  
The major's smile hardened into a leer. "Come now, old man, we're both adults here. Whatever your game is, I won't let it out."  
  
Marston took a deep breath. "I'm not playing any game with Miss Flanagan."  
  
The soldier looked at him long and hard through eyes that were not intelligent but did contain a certain low cunning. "Then she's playing one with you." He tossed back his whiskey and walked to the desk for another. "Sam Flanagan - the real one, the gunman - did some work for us two years ago. Not my regiment, you understand, but I had occasion to meet him several times. Got to know him quite well, actually."  
  
He paused to add the minutest amount of water to his drink. Raising the glass, he peered through the amber liquid, then nodded in satisfaction. He turned back to his host.  
  
"Sam Flanagan doesn't have a daughter." 


	7. A Desperate Need to Know

It was easily the longest night of his life. He could have been eating sawdust for all the attention he paid to the meal.  
  
Two of his guests did not seem to notice his mood. Captain Francis Ogilvy and Lieutenant James Rogers devoted themselves to their host's food and drink with the single-minded enthusiasm of soldiers who did not eat half as well in their barracks.  
  
Marston tried to avoid looking at the other end of the table where Major Ashley-Pitt was seated. The major's knowing smiles were intolerable enough but when he began alternating them with pitying looks, the temptation to commit homicide was almost overwhelming.  
  
Finally the evening ended and the guests departed into their bedrooms with many a shouted goodnight and sleepy giggle. Marston waited ten minutes by the clock on his bureau, then headed out the back door.  
  
There was still light in the cookhouse. He paused on the threshold. Sam was moving about the room, putting crockery and pots away on shelves. Looking up, she saw his reflection in the mirror image thrown back by a window.  
  
"Well, Mr. Marston, how was your dinner party?" She pushed a large bottle to the very back of a shelf and turned to face him. "From the noise you were making, you seemed to be enjoying yourselves."  
  
He pulled the door shut behind him and listened for the click that meant it was firmly latched. His course of action was still unclear to him. When the major had made his comment earlier in the evening, the floor heaved under his feet. He had wanted to run to the dining room and choke the truth out of her. He did not like being lied to.  
  
But in the hallway outside he had stopped and leaned against the wall. His emotions were still roiling but he realized his predominant feeling was.hurt. For six weeks he had tried to get to know her, talking to her several times a day, asking questions about her life and her family. They were more than boss and employee; they were becoming friends. He had told her things he would never have told other employees, even Toby who had been with him since the beginning. Why hadn't she trusted him enough to tell him the truth?  
  
During the delay he had managed to get his feelings under control. He could not afford to let his emotions take control. He had to get to the bottom of this mystery.  
  
Now he leaned against the back of a chair in the cookhouse and watched her. She looked tired but her smile was warm and friendly.  
  
"It was fine, thank you. You did an excellent job tonight." Under half- closed lids, he watched her carefully. "I know it wasn't easy on short notice."  
  
"Thank goodness we had more rice than we needed. It's so easy to boil and the men filled up on it so I could cook for you." She threw her cloth into the sink and sat down in the nearest chair. Stretching her arms out on the table, she yawned and rested her head on them.  
  
He moved around the table to her side. Long hair hung down her back, released from the pins that confined it during the day. Her hands were red and rough; three of her fingernails were broken. She raised her head and looked at him. "And what brings you here tonight?"  
  
The hard knot of anger in his chest loosened and fell away as he looked into her eyes. Surely they were too clear to hide deception. All he had to do was get closer to her. Now that he knew she was hiding something he could probe deeper than he had before. There had to be an explanation.  
  
But he would not ask for it tonight. He saw the exhaustion in her posture and felt like a tyrant.  
  
"I came to thank you." He pulled out a chair and sat down. "And to tell you that after breakfast tomorrow you are not to work for three full days. I forbid it."  
  
"You forbid it?" She smiled at his tone.  
  
"Yes." He smiled back. "I'm a very harsh boss so don't think of disobeying."  
  
"I wouldn't dream of it." Her smile faded. "Thank you. I am very tired."  
  
He rose. "I won't keep you up then. Get some sleep." Looking down into her eyes, he felt a strong wave of protectiveness sweep through him. Somehow he would succeed in getting her to trust him and he would take care of her problems for her.  
  
Tomorrow was soon enough. 


	8. Quality Time

The curtain covering the bedroom window wasn't wide enough to reach all the way across. By eight in the morning the sun was shining directly onto the pillow and into Sam's eyes. She had discovered this fact the previous day when it woke her up.  
  
She smiled and stretched. It was going to be hard going back to work tomorrow. The first day she had simply sat everywhere: outside, in her bedroom, on the corral fence watching the men work with the horses, under the shade trees beside the main house reading a book. Yesterday she'd progressed to walking about the place, asking questions, exploring buildings whose functions were unknown to her and getting to know the workings of the ranch. She'd spent the evening with Lushy, Moll, Alice and Nell, talking about dresses and hairstyles, laughing over the foibles of men and trying not to blush at some of the things they'd told her.  
  
The sun was lingering on the pillow. She sat up out of the glare and hugged her knees. How to spend her last day of holiday?  
  
The cookhouse door banged open. "Miz Flanagan? Boss says you're to come up to the corral soon's you've had breakfast."  
  
"Thanks, Cody. I'll be right there." Nothing like having your decisions made for you, she thought wryly as she pushed back the covers.  
  
The corral was the center of unusual activity. Horses were saddled and a wagon was being loaded with wooden posts, picks and shovels. Marston leaned against the gate speaking to one of the men. He waved her over as she came up.  
  
Her first thought was that he was dressed more casually than she'd ever seen him. Her second was that he had a very nice smile. She ruthlessly suppressed her third thought before it could get started.  
  
"Good morning, Miss Flanagan. Some of the men are going up to the eastern ridge to repair some fencing." Marston pointed to the wagon, which was almost ready. "How would you like to come with us?"  
  
"Yes!" Sam was thrilled. "That is, if I won't be in the way."  
  
"You won't. You'll be with me." He pushed away from the gate. "We'll ride with the men and then keep going. I want to show you some of the country out here."  
  
It was a perfect day for a ride. Not a cloud marred the wide expanse of the sky. She could have lost her seat a dozen times for staring all about her and not paying attention to her horse. Sam and Marston rode ahead of the men in the wagon and left them behind with a wave when they reached the east ridge.  
  
He seemed to know exactly where he was going. They rode past outcrops of rock and clumps of bush until the men were left far behind and Sam lost track of the time. Finally they climbed a bluff and stopped at the top. A creek, swollen with winter rains, cut through the parched red soil below them. A stand of trees joined with the rock to provide shade.  
  
"We'll walk the horses down from here." Marston dismounted and led his horse forward. "It's rather steep for riding them."  
  
They secured their mounts at the bottom of the trail and refreshed themselves with the cool water. The angle of the rock offered refuge from the glaring noon sun.  
  
"This is beautiful country, Mr. Marston." She gazed at the view across the creek. "Blue sky, red earth - who would ever want to live in town if they could live here?"  
  
"I think, when we're alone, we can dispense with the formalities." He sat beside her and leaned back against the rock. "Why don't you call me Elliott.Sam?"  
  
"Thank you, Elliott." She stared fixedly at the creek. "I'd like that." Using his first name came quite easily to her; she realized that she'd been calling him that in her mind for days, if not weeks. "Do you come here often?"  
  
"Not as much as I used to. I find I'm very busy these days." He plucked a long grass and twisted it in his fingers. "Now I just come here on.special occasions."  
  
"What kind of special occasions?" Her voice sounded high to her ears.  
  
"Oh, not any dates in particular. I mean that when I come here," He leaned forward and stroked her hand with the grass. "I like to do special things."  
  
"Like what?" She cleared her throat but still it came out in a whisper.  
  
"Like enjoying the company of a friend." He turned her hand over and began to stroke her palm with the grass. "I thought we could take some time to get to know each other better."  
  
"That -" She swallowed and tried again. "That would be nice."  
  
"It must be worrisome for you, knowing that your father's in town and you haven't heard from him." He continued to play with the grass, caressing her wrist down to the tip of her index finger and back again.  
  
"Yes. I sometimes feel - That is -" She fumbled to a halt. "I mean, you're right, it is worrisome."  
  
He began to stroke her thumb, then sent the grass across her palm down the length of each finger in turn. "Are you very close to him?"  
  
"Yes." The shivers were running up her arm. "After my mother died, it was just the two of us for a long time." A feeling of sadness swept over her. She pulled her hand away from him and hugged herself tightly.  
  
Marston examined the grass stem minutely, twirling it in front of his eyes. "You told me when you arrived that he taught you how to shoot as well as he did."  
  
"Oh, yes. He taught me about guns when I was very young." She smiled at a sudden memory. "Rifles were hard until a few years ago but six-shooters I could handle when I was ten or twelve."  
  
"Really." He sounded bored. Glancing up, she found that he was sitting even closer than before. The look in his eyes definitely wasn't boredom. She blinked in surprise and quickly looked down again.  
  
"You know, Sam.it's such a nice day.and the horses are tired." His voice was soft and husky. "It occurs to me that we could do something that would make this day really.special.if you wanted to."  
  
"How.special? I mean, how would we make it.?" Her voice trailed off.  
  
He smiled. She hesitated for a moment, then smiled back.  
  
****************************************  
  
Toby, Ned, Frank and Jack waited by the wagon for some time after they'd finished their work. The noon sun was high in the sky. Marston had not given any clear instructions about their return but they assumed that they would all go back together. As the afternoon wore on, Toby decided to set out in pursuit of the wandering pair.  
  
The bluff overlooking the creek was in sight when he heard the first shots. There was a fusillade of noise, then a pause, then the shots started again. He froze, then ran forward, fumbling with his holster. Finally pulling his gun free, he dropped to the ground and peered over the rocky edge.  
  
"Well, I'll be dipped!" He blinked. "I'll be double-dipped!"  
  
Marston and Sam were standing by the creek. Each had a six-shooter in hand. Across the water and standing on the horizon was a stick with a tin can on top of it. First one, then the other, would take careful aim at the can and fire at it. Most of the time the bullet would hit it and a tinny "ping" would echo the sound of the shot. Rarely the bullet would whine away without hitting anything.  
  
While reaching back to retrieve more bullets from a box on the ground, Marston saw his foreman above them. "All finished?" He looked at Sam with regret. "It looks like we've got to head back." He tossed the bullets back in the box.  
  
Sam laughed and handed him her gun. "Thank you. I really enjoyed myself." She smiled at him. "Mr. Marston."  
  
"You're welcome." He grinned back at her. "Miss Flanagan." 


	9. Meanwhile Back in Freemantle

There were twelve steps from the kitchen to the bedroom, then a pause to push the door with his elbow, then another five steps to the table beside the bed. For days he had counted them under his breath. He walked slowly, balancing the bowl between both hands, not complaining, not even when the broth spilled over the side. His breath came out in a long, low hiss but aside from his rapidly blinking eyes, there was no other sign of pain.  
  
He put the bowl down gently, holding his breath until the task was successfully completed. Then he crossed to the door and bolted it, listening for sounds of footsteps in the hall. He had never heard any so far, but it was only a matter of time.  
  
A sound from the bed caught his attention. The man lying there was struggling to lift his hand. He flew back to the bed and bent over anxiously. "What is it?"  
  
The man pointed to the far corner of the room. He turned and checked. Yes, the occupant of the truckle bed was still there, watching the proceedings with large eyes as he ate his boiled potato and carrots. "It's alright, Dad. Conn's eating his dinner. I got it first tonight."  
  
He turned back to the bed with a smile. The man grimaced, one side of his face unyielding while the other moved spasmodically. Harsh noises eventually surrendered to a strong will and became words. "You.your.turn.eaten?"  
  
"Yes, Dad, I ate already." He sat on the side of the bed and reached for the bowl. "I need all my strength to keep you in bed so you don't run around and dance a jig." He held out a spoonful of broth.  
  
The man's torso began to shake and puffs of breath wheezed from his throat. "Ha, ha, ha." He reached forward and patted the other's knee, then let his arm fall to the bed, exhausted by the effort.  
  
For some time the meal proceeded in silence. Finally the man relaxed into his pillows, eyes closed, and sighed deeply. His chest rose and fell evenly and he slept.  
  
His son gathered up the bowl and plates and returned them to the kitchen. He bolted the door again and sank down on the truckle bed, finally surrendering to the softness. The growing darkness encouraged his feeling of drowsiness.  
  
"Niall? Are you still awake?" The whisper was urgent in his ear.  
  
"Yes, Conn."  
  
"I want Sam to come back."  
  
"She will, Conn. With lots of money. Then everything will be fine again."  
  
"I want her now, Niall." The voice trembled with tears.  
  
Niall opened his eyes and looked at his brother. "So do I. But she'll come as soon's she can."  
  
Loud footsteps crashed down the hall outside. Niall and Conn froze, their breaths congealing in their lungs. Then Niall reached under the bed and pulled out a six-shooter. He held the weapon in both hands and pointed the muzzle at the door.  
  
Beside him Conn cowered behind his pillow, his thumb hovering near his mouth.  
  
They could feel the floorboards under them shake with the force of heavy treads. "ANNIE! You hear me, woman?" The man's voice was harsh and loud, and Niall pictured him as a giant of eight feet or more, his head probably brushing the ceiling of the hall. Conn disappeared under the covers.  
  
Niall held the gun tighter.  
  
A door opened and a woman's voice, laughing and soft, interrupted the man. They exchanged words and then the door shut again, leaving the hall silent once more.  
  
Niall slowly lowered the gun to the covers, then slid it under the bed again. He looked at the lump in the bed that was his seven-year-old brother. He wished Liam was back from working at the livery stables. Liam was twelve and would know what to do. He wished Sam was back. He wished his Dad was better again and things were the way they used to be.  
  
Most of all he wished he wasn't only ten years old and scared. 


	10. Going to Town

"We'll need more salt, too. I forgot to write it down." Sam Flanagan slid the list across the table to her employer.  
  
"Are you sure that's going to be enough?" Elliott Marston examined the paper and calculated amounts and numbers. For some time the scratching of his pen was the only sound in the room.  
  
Sam propped her chin on her hands and watched him. She liked the way his hair flopped into his eyes when he leaned forward in concentration. He was too intent on his work to notice. Her fingers itched to brush it away.  
  
The past two weeks had been wonderful. They had spent several hours together every day, discussing the business of the ranch and the pending quarterly visit to town for more supplies. He seemed to go out of his way to seek her opinion about a wide variety of matters.  
  
Marston continued to scribble on the list. Sam frowned. The fact that she enjoyed being with him didn't stop her from questioning his behavior. It didn't seem likely that a rancher with so many responsibilities could spend so much time with her.  
  
"Well, I think that just about covers it." He sat back in his chair and stretched his arms over his head. "If you can't think of anything else you need."  
  
She hesitated, turning over a half-formed idea in her mind. It seemed like an innocuous request but he might not see it that way. Also she was not sure she wanted to share such private knowledge with him. She shivered suddenly, as another thought struck her: he might be put in danger if he knew too much.  
  
Unfortunately he was watching her very closely. He reached across the table to take up her hand. "What's wrong?"  
  
"Nothing!" She forced herself to smile, knowing at the same time that her voice was too shrill to fool him.  
  
"Now, now. This is your boss you're talking to, young lady." He scowled at her with mock severity. "Come on, tell me what's wrong." He rose and walked around the end of the table, still holding her hand. When he reached her side he took the other one and pulled her to her feet.  
  
"You're going to tell me what's bothering you right now." He backed away from the table and out into the hall, holding her hands in a firm grip. She allowed herself to be led, smiling and gently tugging to free herself.  
  
He pulled her into the little-used back parlor, little more than an enclave when the double doors to the larger parlor were open but a snug retreat when they were closed. With a sudden sharp movement he swung her into a wing chair and turned to shut the doors. They were plunged into twilit gloom.  
  
Blinking rapidly, she clutched the arms of the chair with her fingers, then clasped them tightly on her lap. She stared up at him as he pushed an ottoman in front of her chair and sat on it. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, as she sat as far back as she could. She was trapped.  
  
"Now then, my dear." He smiled at her warmly as he once more took possession of her hands. "Isn't this cozy? Just the two of us, having a chat."  
  
"Yes, sir." It seemed a safe answer.  
  
"I thought we agreed that we could be more informal when we we're alone. Call me Elliott." He lifted her hands in his and examined her fingers as if he had never seen such appendages before.  
  
"Yes, Elliott."  
  
"Why did you look so distressed back there, Sam? Whatever it is I can fix it for you." He began to caress her fingers with his thumbs, stroking back and forth.  
  
The urge to share her burden with someone else was suddenly stronger than ever. It was ridiculous, he couldn't help her at all but not in years had she met anyone whose strength she trusted more.  
  
"Is it about your father?" He gazed into her eyes. "You've never really talked about him since the night you arrived. I know you said he was being cared for by friends but even so I'm sure it must be worrisome for you."  
  
A shuddering sigh escaped her. "It's just that.the money you've paid me.if I could get it to our.friends.I would feel so much better." She cursed silently at the muddled phrases. Trying to keep things secret would mean having to reveal even more if she wasn't careful.  
  
"Well, I could deliver it to them when I'm in Fremantle if you give me the address." He added squeezing to the treatment he was giving her fingers. She shifted in her chair and tried to concentrate. "But I have a better idea."  
  
He lifted her hands higher and kissed the first knuckle of her hand. "Why don't -" He kissed the next knuckle. "- you come - " Another kiss "- along to - " Again. "- Fremantle - " He had reached her other hand now. " - with me?" He covered the second hand with rapid little kisses. "You can deliver it yourself and see that your father is well."  
  
She stared. Her eyes filled with tears. She tore her hands free and threw her arms around his neck. He rose with fluid grace, pulling her up with him and securing his arms around her waist.  
  
"YES! Oh, yes!" She was laughing and trying not to cry at the same time. The oppressive weight on her mind had dissolved in a moment. "How can I ever thank you?"  
  
He pulled her closer. She went willingly. "I'll let you know." He dropped a kiss on her nose. "Sooner rather than later, my dear." 


	11. Elliott Reaches a Decision

There were some things about Australia that had to be experienced. For instance, no words would suffice to adequately describe the red soil that gave newcomers the odd feeling of walking on burning ground. Or the sheer breadth of the land with its blue sky arching from one horizon to the other with barely a cloud to mar the perfection.  
  
Or the oxen. Looking at them eating contentedly in the twilit gloom, no one would believe that anything could be worse than their appearance. Elliott Marston was wiser than that: he knew the importance of sitting upwind of them at all times.  
  
He sat propped against the wagon wheel, with a paper in his hand. Frowning in concentration, he read the entries on the list.  
  
On the right side of the page:  
  
1. Ashley-Pitt's claim that Flanagan doesn't have a daughter. 2. Very secretive about her past. 3. Can cook very well; who taught her if her mother died young?  
  
On the left side of the page:  
  
1. Can use a six-shooter very well; obviously been trained by someone. 2. Very sincere and emotional about father's condition. 3. Her desperation was very real on her first night here.  
  
He pulled a pencil out of his pocket and added another point to the same column:  
  
4. Eyes are too clear and honest to hide a lie.  
  
He tapped the page. There was something more. Finally he added a last line:  
  
5. Elliott Marston loves Sam Flanagan - whoever she is.  
  
For a long moment he stared down at the page. Then he stroked a large "X" through the points in the right-hand column.  
  
"What are you reading?"  
  
Marston started violently. The paper fell from his grip. He grabbed it and secured it into his vest pocket. "Nothing. Nothing important."  
  
Sam dropped to the ground beside him. "That's a contradiction, isn't it?" She smiled and dropped her head back against the wagon wheel. "When do think we'll get to Fremantle?"  
  
"If we push hard and don't have any problems, we should be there by the end of the day after tomorrow." He watched her narrowly from half-shut eyes. He'd been doing it for the entire trip.  
  
She played with a thin leather string, first running it through, then winding it around, her fingers, then tugging it free again. The light from the cooking fire seemed to hold her mesmerized. She turned to him suddenly.  
  
"When we get to town, I'd like to go see my family." It came out in a rush.  
  
He assumed his most reassuring expression: benevolent but not quite avuncular. "Of course you do. It's been a long time." She relaxed and smiled happily. "We'll go together. I'd like to meet your father. He must be an extraordinary man."  
  
Her eyes widened. She sat up, her back stiff and straight. "You can't!"  
  
He stared. "Why not?"  
  
"Uh, I mean," She blinked rapidly, waving her hands in midair between them, then clasping them to her chest. "that is, he's still sick. You don't want to be with a sick man."  
  
"I want to meet your father." He scanned her face, looking for some clue that would explain this intense emotion. "I have something to ask him. And I think you know what it is." He reached for her closest hand.  
  
"You can't!" She surged upright in one swift movement. Her hands were balled into fists now. "You don't understand. He'll get upset."  
  
Marston scrambled to his feet, trying to grasp some part of the conversation before it fled out of his reach completely. "My dear, there's no need for this." He reached for her hands. "Tell me what's wrong -"  
  
Sam reached past his hands and gripped the lapels of his jacket. She shook him slightly in her agitation. "My father is a very sick man. Sometimes he has.fantasies.about strangers."  
  
"Do you mean he's delusional?" Marston reached up and took her hands; he doubted she was even aware of it. "We'll take a doctor with us. The best man in Fremantle. That should -"  
  
"It's not something a doctor can treat." She shook her head firmly. "No, you'll have to stay away. I couldn't bear it if he thought -" Swallowing hard, she shook him again.  
  
"Thought what?"  
  
"That you were the man he's supposed to kill." 


	12. Checking In

"Here you are, Mr. Marston, the Victoria Suite. Just like always, sir." The words were buttered with a smile as the clerk placed the key on the desk.  
  
"Thank you." Elliott Marston signed the register and pocketed the key.  
  
"Of course, sir, you know that serving you is our greatest pleasure. We at the Royal Hotel believe that." The young man's voice droned on and joined the background noise as Marston looked around the lobby.  
  
The usual dinnertime crowd occupied the posh lobby of Fremantle's premier hostelry. Men sat in the dark leather club chairs, reading months' old copies of the London Times and pretending to find the news fascinating. Another leaned against a faux marble column and examined the world with sharp eyes, stroking a solid gold watch chain. Elegantly gowned women sailed through the lobby on their way to the restaurant, the only public portion of the hotel they were allowed to enter.  
  
But something was missing. Marston scanned the scene again.  
  
There she was, half hidden behind a large rubber plant. Sitting in one of the club chairs and glaring at him through stormy blue eyes. No doubt about it. Sam Flanagan was not happy.  
  
He smiled back. He was very happy. Her presence was a matter for self- congratulation. She had put up a ferocious fight against staying at the same hotel and allowing him to pay for it. Appeals to reason (which he disputed), frugality (which he laughed at) and discretion (which he disdained) had been followed by a flat declaration to stay nowhere but with her family.  
  
But it had been difficult to carry on an argument on the sidewalk in front of the hotel. And when she discovered that a porter had already carried her bag inside, she had little choice but to swallow her refusal to pass through the ornate doors. The disappearance of the Marston Ranch hands and the wagons meant that she was stranded without escort or transportation to the other side of town.  
  
And then he had revealed his winning hand: she would receive no pay until she was officially a guest of the hotel. Waves of speechless fury had buffeted him all the way to the registration desk.  
  
"And I found Miss Flanagan a very nice room in the west wing -"  
  
Marston turned and looked at the clerk directly for the first time. The young man faltered to a halt.  
  
"Put her in the room next to mine. The one with the connecting door."  
  
"Well, you see, sir, it's just that -" The clerk licked his lips. "it's our policy, sir, that single ladies are in the west wing to make sure they aren't, uh, bothered or.or anything."  
  
"She won't be bothered." Marston held out his hand. "I'll take the key."  
  
"Uh, well, sir." The clerk scanned the page in front of him. "Well, there's the William Room, just across the hall." He glanced up, then hastily returned to the page. "And the George Room, right beside yours, is free." He handed over the key without looking up again.  
  
"Thank you. You've been most helpful." Marston weighed it in his hand. "Now please arrange for two baths to be prepared in our rooms immediately. And send a messenger to Jasper Connaught informing him of my arrival."  
  
The clerk nodded quickly to Marston's rapidly departing back. 


	13. Some Information But Not Nearly Enough

Jasper Connaught frowned. "This is most irregular, you understand."  
  
"I understand." Elliott Marston leaned back in his chair and blew smoke at the ceiling. It was never wise to hurry a banker. "More brandy?"  
  
"If it were anyone else, I would not consider the request for a moment. But coming from you." The older man shook his head, reinforcing the fact that he was acting against the accumulated financial instincts of a lifetime, and shuffled the papers in front of him. "Oh, yes, thank you. Just a spot, please."  
  
"Believe me, I appreciate your making an exception." Marston poured a generous amount into the other's glass. "But sometimes a man has to gamble a little to win a lot."  
  
Connaught sniffed. Marston smiled. A less likely gambler than the president of the First Commercial Bank of Western Australia could not be imagined. The man was all angles and sharp points as his elbows and knees poked out of the chair. The candlelight reflected off his spectacles as he adjusted them with long bony fingers.  
  
"I made a cursory search of our bank's records after we spoke this afternoon. Sam Flanagan does have an account with us, going back about fourteen years." Connaught shifted in his chair and reached for his glass. "We would not normally do business with a man in his, er, profession, but there were personal considerations involved."  
  
"What kind of 'personal considerations' do you mean?"  
  
"Fifteen years ago, we were plagued by a series of robberies. Deliveries of gold were intercepted no matter how often we varied the schedules. Obviously they had help from someone inside the bank with access to sensitive information. We hired Flanagan to find the malefactors."  
  
Connaught sipped his brandy. "He did an excellent job. Within a month the crime ring had been broken and the felons were behind bars."  
  
"And the gunslinger was accepted as a customer of the most exclusive bank in Western Australia."  
  
"Not only that. He was accepted by many businessmen who hired him to advise them on security matters. Overnight his shady past was forgotten."  
  
"Most affecting. Sounds like a fairy tale ending." Marston sipped his whiskey.  
  
"Oh, not entirely. Game poachers turned wardens are rarely popular with their former colleagues. Flanagan became the target of a great deal of animosity."  
  
"Interesting." Marston leaned forward in his chair and refilled the banker's glass. "Were there attempts on his life?"  
  
"Several. All unsuccessful. He kept a low profile, moved around a fair bit, made it hard for people to find him." Connaught smiled his appreciation and lifted the snifter to his nose. "Very nice, Elliott. No price too high for good quality."  
  
"I quite agree." Marston watched his guest closely. It was always a chancy thing, giving a man enough brandy to loosen his tongue but not enough to put him to sleep. "Obviously no one found him since he's still alive today."  
  
"Found who?" Connaught blinked owlishly.  
  
"Flanagan." Marston eyed the brandy. Had he miscalculated?  
  
"Oh, him." The banker frowned in remembrance. "No, no one found him. He outlived most of them. Not a long-term career, being a criminal in this country. Good thing for Flanagan. Started a family once he could make an honest living."  
  
"Really? Who would marry a gunslinger, even one who gave up the profession?" Marston raised his voice to make sure it penetrated the alcoholic fog.  
  
"I never met her, of course. We didn't mix socially." For the banker, this was high wit. He giggled slightly. "She was a widow, quite young. They had two children at least, maybe more. Boys, I think. She died a few years ago. Saw the notice in the paper."  
  
"Had he been married before?" Marston lifted the decanter to examine the remainder. He kept his voice carefully neutral.  
  
"Not that I know of." Connaught waved a hand in the air. "Course, no way to tell what he did before he came here. From Sydney, you know."  
  
Marston's shoulders sagged as the tension eased. "I didn't know that." That might explain why the major didn't know about Sam.  
  
"No reason why you should. None of your weesbax." The banker giggled sleepily. "I mean beeswax." He slumped back in his chair and closed his eyes. His breathing became regular and his fingers opened, dropping the snifter to the floor.  
  
Marston sat back in his chair and stared at his guest. It was a start, but there was a great deal more information he needed before he could put his plan into effect. 


	14. Escape! Sort Of

Sam Flanagan eased open the window of her hotel room. An evening breeze blew gently against her face, lifting her hair and the bedroom curtains behind her. The sky was still blue but darkening rapidly to indigo on the eastern horizon.  
  
She looked down at the ground, estimating distance, and cautiously swung one leg over the sill. Her room overlooked an alley between the hotel and a dressmaker's shop. It was lit from the street with gaslight and from the back of the shop where the door stood open. She would have to gamble that the dressmaker was in the front room.  
  
As she balanced herself, she looked to her left and breathed easier. Marston's room did not have a window on this side. She would not have to worry about being caught.  
  
Her room was on the third floor. A pipe ran from the roof to the ground beside her window. After a few deep breaths, she pulled her other leg over the sill, flexed her fingers and reached for the pipe.  
  
Clinging with both hands, she felt with her feet for the struts that held the pipe to the wall. Her arms soon ached from supporting most of her weight. She prayed that her palms would not become sweaty.  
  
As the next window appeared in front of her, she paused to catch her breath, standing on the second story ledge and clinging with all her strength. The urge to look down was almost overpowering but she knew she would not be able to continue if she saw the ground. After a few moments she began to climb down the pipe again.  
  
Her breathing sounded harsh in her ears over the pounding that was her heart. She noticed that the gaslight was shining from above her now and gasped in relief that she was close to her goal. She could see her shadow cast against the wall from the light through the shop door. It could not be much farther. Her arms and shoulders were throbbing in pain.  
  
"You know, I rather thought you might do something like this." The well- known voice was directly below her.  
  
Sam screamed and lost her grip. The windows of the hotel dining room flashed past as she plummeted. Almost before she realized her predicament, she was caught and held fast.  
  
She stared up at him from the safety of his arms. He smiled down at her.  
  
"What are you doing out here?" She wished her voice didn't sound so querulous; she couldn't help but feel that a more dignified tone would have lent something to the proceedings.  
  
"I've been spending an enjoyable evening with my banker. A fine man. Pity he can't hold his liquor." Marston showed no inclination to release her. "I could ask you the same question, of course."  
  
"I have to see my father. As soon as possible." Her uptilted chin dared him to refuse her.  
  
"Of course you do. Forgive me for not being here to escort you. We'll go right now." He lowered her until her feet were on the ground but otherwise continued to hold her in a firm grasp.  
  
"I don't want you - " It was more comfortable to put her arms around his waist than to keep them pressed against her sides. Or so she told herself.  
  
"Yes, I know. You're afraid he might shoot me." He pulled her closer and at the same time stepped out of the light from the street. "Well, I'll protect you if you'll protect me. Deal?"  
  
They were in the dusky part of the alley now. His breath ruffled her hair. She could smell the twin aromas of whiskey and cigar smoke on his jacket. It was so tempting to let someone else shoulder the burden of care she'd had for so long. She leaned forward and rested her head on his chest.  
  
It was as if he'd read her mind. "It won't feel so heavy if you let me share the load." He kissed her ear. She shook her head. "Yes, it will be alright. Now don't argue with me."  
  
He kissed her again and released her. For a moment she swayed where she stood, wanting nothing more than to be held again. Then she pulled herself together. "Well, then, let's get going. You can't say I didn't warn you."  
  
As they walked down the alley to the street, she saw that he was wearing his holster. She looked up at him. He followed her gaze and smiled. "Best to be prepared, my dear. Now lead the way." 


	15. A Walk in the Night

The sky was completely black now. Sam and Marston walked past the closed shops and offices in the respectable streets surrounding the Royal Hotel. Against the darkness the gaslights did their pitiful best to provide illumination but it wasn't until the two left the business district that they could be sure of their steps.  
  
Light poured through the doors of noisy bars, flowing across the sidewalks and into the streets. Drivers slouched on wagon seats steered their horses through the traffic, hats pulled low over their faces, their freight a matter of speculation only. In doorways and alleys, men engaged in purposeful loitering, their bodies relaxed but their eyes sharp and watchful.  
  
Marston was aware that they were attracting stares. Women like Sam were not often seen in this district: she was young, clean and sober. More than once he felt it necessary to push his coat back and display his gun to the denizens of the neighborhoods they traversed.  
  
Sam did not appear to notice the tension. She walked with determination, ignoring the crowds and the scenery. He wondered if she even remembered he was there.  
  
"When we get there, you'd better let me do the talking." She did not look at him.  
  
One question answered at least, he thought. "I will follow your lead completely."  
  
After another two blocks of silence, he tried to revive the conversation. "Where exactly are we going?"  
  
"It's not much further."  
  
"That wasn't the question, my dear."  
  
She bit her lip and looked at the street. "You're right." Then she tossed her hair back and finally turned to him. "Why not save your questions until I can answer all of them at once? It would be too hard to explain piece by piece."  
  
He waited but she had apparently finished, so he nodded and they resumed their walk.  
  
The gaslights were becoming scarcer in the part of town they were now in. Many times they passed only headless poles whose glass globes had been shattered. Torches were stuck beside doors or alleys. They were dependent on the lights from the windows of the bars.  
  
Finally Sam came to a stop in front of a building at the end of a particularly dark street. There was noise behind the curtained windows but no music or laughter. The light was unsteady and fitful.  
  
"Here we are." She couldn't quite hide the quaver in her voice.  
  
Marston looked at their destination carefully. In the dark it was hard to make out details beyond the fact that it was three stories tall and set back a bit from the street. All the windows on the second and third floors were curtained and none were dark. It was impossible to tell if the paint was recent or ancient but it was peeling in many places.  
  
The door was shut and there was a panel at eye level that suggested some visitors were more welcome than others. The door was made of good thick planks that were not painted. The lock was large and sturdy, and was the only thing that looked new or polished. In the window was a rudely lettered sign that read "Belle's Palace".  
  
Marston turned to Sam. "Your father is here?"  
  
"Yes. Belle is.an old friend of Dad's." She noticed his expression and stiffened. "She was the only one who'd help us when things got bad."  
  
"I'm not judging you or anyone else." He examined the building again. "It's pretty quiet for a tavern."  
  
"It's not a tavern." Sam took a deep breath and let it out in a great gust. "It's a brothel." 


	16. Mystery of a Closed Door

Nympthetress: Thanks for the kind words. I hope you continue to enjoy the story.  
  
*********************************************************  
  
"More whiskey, Mister Marston?" Belle proffered the bottle.  
  
"No, thank you. I'm fine." Elliott Marston, calling upon years of experience dealing with lawyers and army officers, hid behind his most charming smile and strained to hear the sound of footsteps on the stairs.  
  
The inside of the house was not much of an improvement over the exterior. Sateen wallpaper in lurid sunset hues adorned the walls. Large pieces of overstuffed furniture were beached in the two parlors like sea monsters caught on shore. The lights were dim and hidden under pink shades, giving occupants the feeling they were floating through a rosy mist.  
  
"It's going to do old Sam a world of good to see young Sam again." Belle giggled. "Sounds kind of silly when you say it out loud."  
  
The proprietress of the establishment beamed at Marston. From the moment she opened the front door and found her visitors, she had alternated between smiling and weeping. Sam had been enveloped in a hug and cried over like a lost kitten, then pushed up the ornately carved staircase. Pulling out a frothy lace hanky and dabbing her eyes, Belle had then swept Marston into the front parlor for refreshments.  
  
"I'm sure they're enjoying their reunion." Marston cocked an ear and tried not to look desperate.  
  
"It's purely a wonder those boys are staying so quiet." Belle chuckled.  
  
"Boys?" He looked around, startled.  
  
"Those little brothers of hers." The lace hanky waved in the direction of the ceiling. "Little hellions, they are. But then, bless 'em, they don't mean no harm."  
  
Marston retreated behind his drink. Sam had mentioned brothers a couple of times but he'd assumed they were only a few years younger than she was. He'd never considered there would be children in her life.  
  
He probed cautiously. "Do they visit their father often?"  
  
The hostess looked up from checking the level of whiskey in the bottle and stared at him. "Why, they live here! What did you- " A monstrous knocking interrupted her and she flew to the hall to answer the door.  
  
Marston put his glass down and strode to the staircase. Belle was having a business discussion with a group of men. Under the cover of her high- pitched shriek of laughter, he ran lightly up the stairs.  
  
The second floor hallway was an improvement over the first: obviously the unknown decorator had exhausted his creative energy below. Upstairs he had confined himself to splashes of gold paint on the wood paneling and oversized paintings of nude women at the top of the stairs.  
  
There were several doors along the hall. Marston tread softly on the worn rug and paused occasionally to listen. He paused outside the last room where a soft murmur of voices could be heard and considered his next step.  
  
He had no wish to interrupt what was probably an emotional reunion. Sam would not thank him for intruding. But the conviction had been growing since their conversation on the street that he had to remove the older Flanagan from this place and take him somewhere he could be properly cared for. Belle's casual announcement about the rest of the family being residents as well simply capped his determination.  
  
He had the resources to make life easier for her family and he was going to do it. She would see the reason behind his actions soon enough. Or at least he hoped she would.  
  
Squaring his shoulders, he raised one hand to rap on the door while reaching for the knob with the other. A hard piece of metal suddenly poked him in the back and a soft voice whispered behind him.  
  
"Touch that knob, mister, and it's the last thing you'll do. I got six bullets and at this range I won't miss." 


	17. Meeting the Flanagan Family

Elliott Marston froze. He waited for further instructions.  
  
"Put those hands up where I can see them. Back away from the door."  
  
Marston obeyed slowly and turned around. And blinked in surprise.  
  
The gunman was a youth, not much more than a boy. Large blue eyes watched warily and a lock of blond hair fell over his brow. But there was nothing boyish about the weapon in his hand or the confidence with which he held it.  
  
"Now you just go right back downstairs and wait in the parlour for somebody else." The boy pointed to the stairs with a quick jerk of the gun. "There's nothing in that room you want."  
  
"I have reason to believe otherwise." Marston looked over the boy's head. "Don't worry. I can handle this."  
  
The young gunman turned his head and looked over his shoulder. Immediately Marston reached for his arm, gave his wrist a fierce twist and caught the gun as it fell from the boy's grasp. Then he backed up.  
  
"OWWW!" It was a piercing yelp. Rubbing the injured limb with his other hand, the boy looked up through eyes swimming with tears. "What did you go and do that for?"  
  
The door opened suddenly and Sam appeared in the hall. Her gaze swept from the boy to Marston and back again. "Are you all right?" Then she whirled on her employer. "What did you do to him?"  
  
"I taught him that it's not nice to point guns at people." He felt his patience start to slip. "Why don't you introduce us?"  
  
"He was about to go into Dad's room." The boy was glaring at him with great dislike from a safe position behind Sam. "I stopped him." A brief smile flickered across his face. "You should have seen him jump when I stuck the gun in his back."  
  
Sam ignored this observation. "Mr. Marston, this is my brother Liam." Her tone was formal and precise. "Liam, this is Mr. Marston, the man I work for."  
  
Liam looked Marston over with a critical eye. The rancher reciprocated. Aside from sharing the same color of hair and eyes, the two siblings were not at all similar. The boy was husky and his complexion was ruddier than Sam's with freckles sprinkled over his nose and cheeks.  
  
The weight of the gun in his hand reminded him of their shared familiarity with weapons. An interesting family, he thought. He wondered if his children would inherit the same skill from her.  
  
"I'm sorry I've kept you waiting, sir." The smile she directed at him was not reflected in her eyes. "If you'll just go back to the parlor, I'll be down soon."  
  
Marston met her gaze for a moment. "No."  
  
Her face threatened to crumple; she was blinking rapidly and her lip trembled. "Please."  
  
He put his hand on her shoulder. "Sam, whatever it is, I can help. Please trust me -"  
  
A sharp pain in his leg interrupted him. The boy had kicked him. "Let her go!"  
  
"Liam, don't do that!" Sam found a new outlet for her feelings. "This doesn't concern you!"  
  
"Yes it does! You always treat me like a kid!" Scowling aggressively, Liam didn't take his eyes off Marston. "I'm almost grown up. And if it concerns the family, it concerns me."  
  
A door opened down the hall and a female head popped out of a room. "What's going on? Is it time for work yet?"  
  
Sam muttered something under her breath and pulled the two males into the room behind her. She shut the door firmly and sagged against it, looking up at Marston with an angry expression.  
  
He smiled at her and then looked around. It was quite crowded. A large bed took up most of the far wall; a man was lying on it under several blankets despite the warmth of the evening. A truckle bed had been rolled into the middle of the room and prepared for the night.  
  
Aside from Liam, now sitting on a chair in the corner and still glaring at him, the room also contained two young boys. One stood beside the prone man, staring at the newcomer by the door. The youngest stood in his nightshirt, his thumb in his mouth. As Marston watched, he ran across the room to Sam and burrowed his head into her side.  
  
"Mr. Marston, this is my brother Niall." The boy beside the bed nodded once. "And this is Conn." She ruffled the hair of the child beside her. He shook his head and didn't look up. "And this is my father, Sam Flanagan. I think I explained to you that he stays in bed."  
  
Marston walked across the room. Niall stood his ground then stepped back at the last moment. The rancher looked down at the bed and stretched out his hand.  
  
The man in the bed was haggard and emaciated. His breath came in shallow gasps, his chest rising and falling quickly in a way that was almost painful to watch. His skin was stretched tightly over his cheekbones and nose. His face was pulled down on one side and saliva ran from the corner of his mouth. A faint aroma of medicine and soap pervaded the air.  
  
Only when Marston looked at his eyes, did he see the any sign of the man who once inhabited the tall body, now gone forever. The eyes were clear and blue, and the gaze was focussed and sharp as it examined the newcomer.  
  
For a long moment the two men gazed at each other. 


	18. A MantoMan Meeting

Marston picked up the other's hand and pressed it gently. "How do you do, sir? I've been looking forward to meeting you."  
  
The older man said nothing for a long minute. Then he opened his mouth and breathed out heavily. "Marsss-ton.Sit.down.there." A hand pointed weakly at a chair.  
  
"Dad, we've got to get back to the hotel." Sam pushed herself away from the door and hurried to the bed. The boys stood against the wall, their eyes on their visitor.  
  
"You can...wait.a few minutes." The tone was one of command, as if the speaker did not know that his voice was almost painfully fragile. "Take the boys.out of here."  
  
Marston watched as Sam fought an internal battle. Finally she nodded, her common sense giving way to the older instinct of obedience. She turned to her brothers, taking Conn's hand and Niall's shoulder and pushing them towards the door. Liam stalked ahead with adolescent dignity, disdaining the label of boy.  
  
On the threshold she looked back. Marston nodded in response to her unspoken question. Liam scowled and reached past her to pull the door shut.  
  
Marston turned back to his host. The older man's breathing was harsh in the sudden silence of the room. His eyes were closed but opened when he heard the door.  
  
"We.haven't got much time.." A raspy chuckle escaped him. "No.make that.I haven't...got much time.I can feel." He coughed, the covers shaking with the paroxysm.  
  
Marston reached for the water glass and raised the other's head so he could drink. Flanagan nodded and waved him back.  
  
"I can feel.the next one coming.My hands get shaky." He suddenly looked up and once again Marston saw a younger, stronger man, now a prisoner. "What do you want?" The eyes were fierce and stern. Tension held his body rigid as he waited for the answer.  
  
Marston understood. "I want to marry your daughter. And I am willing to take care of your family."  
  
Flanagan nodded and fell back on his pillows. "Good." His eyes closed again.  
  
"But she's very stubborn and it's going to take some time to win her over." Marston leaned forward to watch the older man. "First of all I want to move you to some place where you can get proper medical care."  
  
Flanagan shook his head. "No.no more time.for me. Very soon now." He waved his hand in the air weakly. "Take them away. Don't let them.see me die."  
  
Marston frowned. This was going to be harder than he thought. "But at a hospital. "  
  
"No! Take them someplace.safe." A hand shot out and gripped his wrist. Marston flinched at the unexpected force. "For God's sake...man.let me die in peace!"  
  
The old man was panting and sweat beaded his face. Marston watched his efforts. Sam would probably be upset but he had no choice. He would make her understand. "Very well. I promise you that I will marry your daughter and I will take your sons out to my ranch where they will be safe. We're days away from the nearest neighbors."  
  
Flanagan opened his eyes again. The brief revival of strength had passed and something mortal looked out at the world. He was right, he didn't have much time; and what he had left was too precious to waste on quarrelling.  
  
Marston continued. "Why is Sam frightened? It's more than just worry."  
  
Flanagan nodded. "Years ago.I let a man go.who should have been hanged for murder. But he was young...and I felt sorry for him." He licked his lips. "The murdered man's brother.found out.threatened to kill me.for it."  
  
Marston frowned. "Has he tried it?"  
  
"A few times.I think. But he's an important man now.Can't be seen with dirty hands." The old man gasped for air. "I've got some papers.can cause him trouble.in my bags. You take care of it.for Sam."  
  
"Leave it to me. Everything will be fine." Marston looked at the door. It was asking too much of Sam to leave them alone for much longer. Any minute now she would be back. "I'll be back tomorrow with all the arrangements made."  
  
"I don't think..I have any other.appointments." A low chuckle wheezed out of him. He sagged back on the bed, almost deflating into sleep.  
  
Marston looked around for the bags the old man had mentioned. The trunk by the foot of the bed seemed the best place to start.  
  
A quick rifling indicated several layers of boys' clothing, mended trousers, darned shirts and knitted socks. Official-looking papers were further down; on one yellowed certificate he caught the words of a marriage license. At the very bottom on one side, there was an oilcloth package that was about half an inch thick. He opened the flap and peered inside. Contracts and legal agreements over several years were folded together and wedged into the interior. He tugged at them but they didn't budge.  
  
He tucked the package into his coat and rearranged the trunk again. The old man slept on, his breathing painfully loud. Marston moved as quietly as he could to the door and opened it.  
  
Sam stood on the other side. She peered around him and scanned the room. Finally she looked up and large tears escaped down her cheeks. Marston held out his arms and she walked into them, shoulders shaking.  
  
He held her tight in the upstairs hallway of a rundown brothel in a harsh frontier town. Inside the room behind them a life was ending.  
  
And in the days ahead of them a new life would begin. 


	19. An Unexpected Visit

"Oh, sir, you have wonderful judgement!" The small plump woman clapped her hands enthusiastically. "That hat is just perfect for the young lady. It will be no trouble to add a veil."  
  
"We'll need it for tomorrow morning. A porter from the hotel will pick everything up then." Elliott Marston settled the bill with the seamstress but kept a wary eye on the bow window overlooking the street. Sam Flanagan sat on a small gilt chair and stared through the glass without seeing anything of the traffic or weather outside.  
  
She'd been like that for most of the afternoon. No matter where they were or what their errand - buying a marriage license, picking out a wedding suit, shopping for the boys - she had been distracted and silent.  
  
He would have preferred it if she had fought him over everything: he was growing accustomed to that and getting better at handling it. But this stillness was something new.  
  
Holding her in the hallway last night had given him the chance to sketch out some plans. Her father was right; his time was limited. As she gradually stopped crying, he told her about their conversation and his commitment to the dying man. She had listened carefully, then nodded her assent.  
  
And she had remained like that ever since.  
  
Telling the boys had not been a problem; they were all used to Sam taking charge and making the arrangements. Even Liam had accepted things, although he scowled at Marston periodically to show his independence.  
  
"Will there be anything else now, sir?" The proprietress beamed happily at them.  
  
"No thank you." Marston bowed slightly. He stepped up to Sam and touched her arm. "Daydreaming again, my dear?"  
  
She looked up without smiling. "No, just thinking."  
  
He reached for the door handle. "Come now, such somber thoughts have no place in our wedding plans!"  
  
She passed into the street in front of him. "I suppose not. But since I've never been married before, I can't be sure." Glancing over her shoulder at him, she grinned.  
  
He suddenly realized he was holding his breath and released it. "Now that's more like it." Settling her hand on his arm, he watched her profile carefully. "I was becoming quite intimidated by your manner."  
  
She laughed at that. "I guess I'm sort of numb. You've just swept in and taken over."  
  
He watched her carefully. "Do you mind?"  
  
"No, not really. You don't know what a burden it's been." Sam looked around at the shops. "It's been years since I've been able to go shopping without worrying about things."  
  
They were leaving the retail district behind. Mercantile establishments gave way to office buildings with spike railings and thick polished doors. Carriages moved purposefully through the streets carrying men of business on serious matters. Marston nodded in greeting to acquaintances who watched the pair with open curiosity. Sam seemed not to see them.  
  
"I am worried about Liam. Just a little." She paused to stare at a heavy wagon whose driver was trying to turn too tight a corner with inches to spare. "He's changed so much in three months I hardly recognize him."  
  
"He's growing up." Marston acknowledged a wave from a banker across the street. "He's the man of the family and wants everyone to know it."  
  
"Well, I don't -" She stopped in her tracks. "Elliott! Look!"  
  
His head snapped around. They were approaching the Royal and had a clear view of the front of the hotel. A crowd of people had gathered to watch a large landau drawn by four matched black horses come to a halt. The animals were decked out in holiday array with pink and white ribbons threaded through their manes. The carriage itself was painted white with gilt trimming and lavish pink upholstery. Lolling back on the seats were four ladies whose work rarely took them out of doors during the day. They languished under the outraged stares of the matrons on the sidewalk and the interested looks of their husbands.  
  
The hotel doorman was attempting to argue with the driver, who ignored him except for spitting disrespectfully on the ground between the other's feet. Onlookers began to laugh openly at the scene.  
  
"What in the world.?" Marston stopped on the edge of the crowd and examined the apparition with the rest.  
  
"We'd better go inside before the manager comes out." Sam sounded amused. "I'm afraid Belle's come to visit." 


	20. Unwelcome News

Three hours later Elliott Marston was thinking seriously about purchasing the Royal Hotel. His logic was simple: if he owned it, he could burn it to the ground; and if he burned it to the ground, he might, just might, be able to get rid of his unwelcome guest.  
  
He leaned back in his chair and eyed Belle narrowly. It was probably safe to say that her idea of a proper afternoon outfit for a lady differed significantly from that of many Fremantle matrons. They would not have worn so many feathers or diamonds. And few of them considered a heavy gray veil that could have been designed by a beekeeper to be a fashionable daytime accessory.  
  
He could appreciate Sam's gratitude for helping her family when other doors were closed to them. But he suspected that the woman's good nature was heavily streaked with self-interest and he waited to hear the real reason for her visit.  
  
Sam was not so cynical. She listened attentively to Belle and asked after all the professional ladies by name. Belle was only too delighted to gossip about every mutual acquaintance. Finally she came to the end of her recital.  
  
"It seems so lonesome at the Palace without those kids around." She sighed deeply and dabbed at her eye with a hanky. "Keep a body young, they do."  
  
Sam leaned over and patted her hand. "It's too bad they're not here right now or you could say goodbye to them."  
  
Belle looked up with a start. "Good-bye?"  
  
Marston noticed that her eyes were dry. "We'll be leaving for my ranch very soon. I've been gone for longer than I expected."  
  
"Well, that will be nice for the boys, I'm sure." Belle folded her hands in her lap and looked speculatively at him. "But what about old Sam?"  
  
"Oh, Dad's coming with us. The open air will do him good and the new doctor says he should be well enough to travel if we take it in slow stages." Sam's tone was slightly challenging. "We're taking a nurse back with us. Dad's looking forward to it."  
  
Marston said nothing. It was true the old man was resting more comfortably in the hotel room down the hall with two nurses in almost constant attendance. But he was inclined to believe that the improvement derived from knowing that his daughter was close at hand and his sons were no longer living in a brothel. The old man had made his peace with the world and waited for what he called "the final call".  
  
Belle's eyes narrowed. "Then that's that. When's the ceremony?"  
  
"Tomorrow morning." Sam beamed happily. "Right here in the hotel."  
  
"A small ceremony. Just the family." Marston added hastily.  
  
"Well that is nice." Belle looked from one to the other with a brittle smile. "It's so good to see everything working out well for you. I wish I could say the same for me - But there, I don't want to burden you with my silly problems." She shrilled a laugh that made Marston wince.  
  
"Belle what is it?" Sam frowned. "Just tell us and if there's anything we can do."  
  
"Well, now that you mention it, there just might be." Belle settled back into the sofa cushions. "You know, dear, your daddy made a lot of enemies over the years."  
  
"He didn't -" Sam bit back the sentence. "Yes, I know. What about it?"  
  
"And it wasn't easy sometimes when he was staying with me to keep those lowlifes away from the place. Only natural that some of them are curious about where he is and how he's doing." Belle brushed down her skirts with exaggerated care. "A couple of them took his leaving real personal, if you know what I mean."  
  
"We don't." Marston interjected. "Tell us."  
  
"Ches Watters, for instance." Belle mused. "He's one that seems to feel old Sam owes him something. Didn't finish a job he wanted done."  
  
Sam was rigid with anger. "He didn't take the job. Watters wanted a criminal, not a security agent. Dad didn't do that kind of work. He never did."  
  
Belle examined her nails critically in the light from the window. "Chess disagrees. And he's looking for your father."  
  
"Why?" Marston noticed with concern that Sam had gone pale.  
  
"To kill him, of course." Belle rolled her eyes. "Some men just take everything so seriously."  
  
Sam clenched her fists on the arms of the chair. Marston jumped in quickly. "I've hired security guards on this floor and throughout the hotel. He'll never get the opportunity."  
  
"I kind of figured you'd do that. That's what I told Ches."  
  
"Then he won't try anything." Marston watched Sam carefully. He wished she would not look so worried.  
  
"Not here. But one of the girls told me that he's planning on visiting young Liam at the livery stable. Apparently Flanagans is all the same to him." 


	21. Sam and Elliott to the Rescue!

"That's the stable, sir. Fletcher's Livery." The cab driver pointed with his whip to the building across the road.  
  
"Thank you. Wait for us." Elliott Marston helped Sam Flanagan to the ground. "We'll be out in a few minutes and you can take us back."  
  
"Yes, sir." The driver nodded respectfully as he pocketed the silver coin tossed to him.  
  
Marston and Sam examined their destination. It was a flourishing enterprise, almost the size of a barn with a large yard in front and running around the side. Almost a dozen men were working in the open areas: repairing saddles, leading horses into the building, unloading feed sacks from a wagon or coming and going from an office that was separate from the main work area. There was no sign of Liam.  
  
"Now we agreed that I would do the talking." Marston's voice held a warning note.  
  
"No, we didn't." Sam slanted a look up at him, then smiled. "You simply declared that you would and I didn't argue."  
  
In spite of the circumstances, he smiled back. They were working together as a team. It was an exhilarating feeling.  
  
It had been an action-filled three hours. Getting further information of Ches Watters's plans out of Belle had been difficult until he dropped the pretence of courtesy and threatened to have his friend the mayor take a close look at her business. Only then did she sulkily provide them with what little else she knew.  
  
Apparently Watters had revealed his intentions to one of Belle's associates as he left her room early that morning. It was Belle's professional opinion that he would return to his home to sleep and refresh himself. Business would keep him housebound until the evening. So spiriting Liam away from the stable to the safety of the hotel should be easy to accomplish if they moved quickly.  
  
Belle had been shoved back into her carriage and sent on her way. Her exit had rivaled her entrance: the hotel manager would need a holiday to recover from it. Then Marston and Sam sat down to make their own plans.  
  
He had expected to have to argue for his ideas but was pleasantly surprised to find her in full agreement with most of them. That the law enforcement officers of Fremantle would not be notified was immediately determined; it would be impossible to keep word about old Sam's whereabouts from getting out and attracting even more unwelcome attention. They also agreed that Marston should take the initiative in any confrontation with Watters since his social and professional standing in the town would stand in their favor.  
  
Deciding the details of their plan had been more contentious. Marston was forced to agree to Sam's presence; Liam was more likely to listen to his sister than to his soon-to-be brother-in-law. Sam agreed to leave all other dealings in Marston's hands.  
  
"Do you see him?" Sam craned her head to scan the stableyard.  
  
"He could be inside." Marston checked the street in both directions, then started across. "Let's get this over with."  
  
Their arrival didn't seem to attract much notice. They entered the yard and looked for someone who might be in charge. An inquiry of the boy watering some of the animals revealed the name of the foreman and his location. They proceeded to the office building in the corner of the yard.  
  
An old man sat on a crate in front of a battered desk piled high with papers that were held down by horseshoes. He peered at his visitors through watery blue eyes. "Liam? Oh, yeah, him. He's mucking out the stalls." An imperious wave through the window beside him brought one of the hands to the door. "You, get young Flanagan out here. Tell him he's got company." The employee ran off and the foreman returned to his papers, his manner suggesting that his business was vital and pressed by deadlines.  
  
Marston and Sam waited. Finally Liam appeared in the doorway, looking at the foreman's office. After pausing to wash his hands at the trough, he joined them with a nod at his sister and a belligerent stare for Marston.  
  
"Isn't this a nice surprise? We were out shopping and we decided to give you a ride back to the hotel." Sam gestured to the cab and driver still parked across the street.  
  
Liam stared. "But I don't get off til after supper when the drivers get back."  
  
"Oh, but we talked to your boss." Sam nodded at the foreman. "He said it's alright just this once."  
  
"But I'm not finished yet." He frowned suddenly. "Is something wrong?"  
  
Marston thought Sam's smile was starting to look a little desperate. "Of course not, silly!" She laughed in a high register. "What could be wrong? Get your stuff and come on."  
  
"It's Dad, isn't it? Did he have another stroke?" Liam was getting frightened and his independent pose dropped to reveal the boy underneath. "Tell me!"  
  
"Your father's fine." Marston thought it was time to step in. "Sam just wanted to surprise you. So since we've already arranged things, you can leave without any problem."  
  
Liam remembered his family standing and scowled at Marston. "I get paid for a full days work and I give a full day's work. I can get back to your fancy hotel when I'm done." He turned away and headed for the stable again.  
  
Looking back over the incident later on, Marston felt that his first real mistake had been not giving in to his impulse to knock Liam out, tie him up and toss him into the cab. It would have made everything so much simpler. But Sam did not give him the time to act. She followed her brother into the stable, arguing the entire way. With a sigh, the rancher had followed her.  
  
Liam was suffering the embarrassment that only a young man on the verge of manhood can feel when an older female relative hectors him in front of his friends and associates. Even in the gloom of the stalls his ears were a bright red. Normally Sam would have been more compassionate but fear made her reckless. Finally she reached out and grabbed his arm, trying to pull him with her.  
  
Marston paused inside the door and shook his head at the undignified tug of war between the siblings. The other men stopped working and stared, some shouting advice to Liam, others simply laughing at the sight. Liam was now crimson with mortification. With a final wrench the boy managed to break away, stumbling backward in the effort.  
  
"Liam!" Sam became aware of her surroundings again and lowered her voice. "Please come with us."  
  
Her brother shook his head and backed away even further. Marston decided to take charge of the situation and bring the spectacle to a close.  
  
"Look, son, why don't we go back to the hotel and discuss -"  
  
"I'm not your son!" Liam spat the word. "And don't think you can order me around just because you buy nice things!"  
  
An impasse had been reached. The other stablehands were now openly watching the proceedings with no pretence of doing their work. Sam was panting from the exertion and her emotions; Liam was in the throes of a growing anger fueled by wounded adolescent male pride. Marston considered his next move carefully.  
  
And then a new voice was heard from the doorway behind them. "Well, well, what's going on here now?" A middle-aged man with a barrel chest and bowlegs swaggered into the stable. "Looks like a argymint of some kind." He scanned the group with a cold eye, pausing at a familiar face. "Afternoon, Ed."  
  
The stablehand nodded respectfully. "Good afternoon, Mr. Watters." 


	22. Deadly Meeting

Sam Flanagan closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she opened them again, she stepped in front of her brother. Nothing would move her from the spot, she vowed.  
  
Ches Watters looked around again. "Manager said I'd find young Flanagan in here. Where's he hiding?"  
  
"I'm Liam Flanagan, sir." Liam pushed past her and assumed a business-like air. "Can I help you with something?"  
  
"You surely can. Come here." For a stocky man, his reflexes were lightning quick. He had the boy pressed to his chest with an arm across his throat before Sam could move. "We're going to go back to my place now and have a little chat." He started to back up to the stable doors.  
  
Everyone froze. The stablehands stared at the abduction in shock. Sam forced herself to stay calm but couldn't stop her hands from fisting at her sides. She tried to catch Marston's eye but he was looking at the doors. He seemed not to notice the activity in front of him.  
  
Watters hadn't turned his back on them but it was perfunctory; he clearly did not expect opposition from anyone. He focussed his attention on his prisoner. "Your pa and me, we have a little disputation going on between us." He looked over his shoulder at the exit.  
  
Liam clawed at the imprisoning arm. Watters cuffed him roughly on the ear. "Now you just hold still." Then he glared at the surrounding crowd. "Ain't you boys got anything better to do?" The men promptly scattered in every direction, vanishing into the stalls and up ladders.  
  
Sam clenched her fists until the nails pierced her palms, cursing her shortsightedness. Why hadn't she brought her gun?  
  
Actually, she knew the answer to that: because she had grown used to letting Elliott Marston handle everything, solving all her problems and smoothing every bump in the road. And the result was that when a member of her family was in real danger, she was powerless. Fool, she thought bitterly.  
  
Liam was really struggling now, his choked whimpers of distress the only sound to be heard as Watters half dragged him across the dirt floor. Sam looked around for a weapon of some kind that she could use. Rakes and pitchforks hung on the far wall but there was nothing within reach except halters and bridles. Half sobbing, she turned back.  
  
Why wasn't Elliott doing something?  
  
Marston leaned against the first row of stalls, his arms crossed and his manner one of mild curiosity at the goings-on in front of him. Liam was putting up a credible fight from his disadvantaged position. His face was red and his breath came in gasps that were painful to hear. Watters was forced to apply more of his strength to keep his hold on the boy.  
  
They were steps away from the double doors when a voice of authority broke into their struggles.  
  
"That's far enough. Let him go."  
  
Sam let out the breath she hadn't realized she was holding. It was going to be alright; Elliott was taking charge. Finally.  
  
Watters looked around. "You talking to me?" His piggy eyes widened in surprise.  
  
Marston examined him with distaste. "I am." Pushing himself away from the stall, he strolled into the middle of the floor. The movement of his coat revealed the walnut-handled gun in his holster.  
  
The other man hesitated. Then he took a firmer grip on Liam, causing the boy to cease his writhing. "Why should I?"  
  
Marston lifted one hand and examined his nails. "So I can kill you."  
  
Watters stared. Then he started laughing, short huffy laughs that moved his whole torso in fitful starts and caused Liam even more discomfort. "You - kill me? Are you serious?"  
  
"Why don't you try it and find out?" Marston's voice sounded soft and dreamy as if he were thinking of something else.  
  
Watters looked over his shoulder to address an invisible crowd. "He thinks he can kill me. Did you hear?" Then he whirled around and thrust Liam away from him, his hand pulling his gun out of his holster in one smooth movement.  
  
It wasn't smooth enough. Marston's gun was out before Liam hit the ground. The shot roared through the stable before the boy had time to suck in his first lungful of air. Liam squealed as his captor's body landed on top of him.  
  
Sam blinked. Her feet seemed nailed in place. Only the sight of her brother's frantic shoves as he tried to escape from his grisly encumbrance brought her back to life. She ran forward just as Marston pulled Liam to his feet. 


	23. Facing the Challenges Ahead

"Now, look here, Elliott. You're an important man in Western Australia but you know perfectly well that you can't shoot a man without repercussions." Melvin Collins pushed his wire-rimmed glasses down his nose and eyed his client soberly. "And defending you on a charge of murder is a lot different than drawing up leases and bills of sale."  
  
"It was self-defence. He drew first." Elliott Marston waved his cigar in the air, ash cascading to the carpet. "Everyone saw it." He sounded bored with the subject.  
  
Night breezes lifted the curtains and cooled the hotel room. The candlelight flickered on the remains of a private dinner. Three people sat around the table: one nervous, the second calm, the third a lawyer and therefore impervious to human emotion.  
  
The nervous one was Sam Flanagan. She pleated her napkin on her lap, pulled it smooth again, and then repeated the process. Occasionally she lifted her eyes to glance at the man sitting beside her.  
  
Elliott Marston, the man she loved. Fiance. Wealthy rancher. Astute businessman.  
  
She suddenly pulled the napkin taut.  
  
Cold-blooded killer.  
  
"Melvin, it can't be that difficult. There were plenty of witnesses." Marston tossed the cigar butt into the fireplace. "No one else did anything to stop him when he grabbed the boy."  
  
She had to cling to that thought. Elliott had saved Liam. No one else had. Certainly she hadn't. Her brother might be dead now if it weren't for Elliott.  
  
The man she was going to marry. The man she thought she knew.  
  
The napkin ripped.  
  
"Are you alright, my dear?" Marston reached over and picked up her hand.  
  
"I'm fine." She was proud of the smile she gave him.  
  
He accepted it, squeezing her fingers tenderly. Collins coughed to regain his attention.  
  
"You'll have to come to the constable's office tomorrow morning." The lawyer began to scribble notes in his tablet. "Of course there's no possibility that you'll have to go to jail but it wouldn't hurt to be helpful to the authorities."  
  
"Out of the question." Marston pulled Sam's hand to the tabletop. "We're getting married tomorrow morning. It will have to be after the luncheon."  
  
Tomorrow morning. In twelve hours time she would be married. A lifelong commitment.  
  
She stood up so quickly the two men had no time to rise. "I'm just going to check on Dad and the boys. It's been an exciting day for them." She was through the door before they could respond.  
  
In the hallway she stopped and rested against the wall. The velvet wallpaper was smooth under her hand. This was ridiculous. Her own father was a former gunman. But somehow it was different. She knew her father regretted those early years, when life was a casual thing and death a constant presence.  
  
A man sat in a chair by the door at the end of the hall, his chair tilted back and a look of boredom on his face. He jerked his head around at the sound of her approach.  
  
"Evening, Miss Flanagan." He touched his hat respectfully. "He ate his dinner a couple of hours ago and Nurse said he was in a good mood."  
  
"Thank you. I just want to look in before I go to bed." She smiled and reached for the door handle.  
  
The room was swathed in gloom, the only illumination the embers in the hearth. The thick carpet muffled her footsteps. Even so, the man in the bed opened his eyes.  
  
"Well, Dad, no use creeping up on you." She smiled tenderly, reaching out to stroke the covers.  
  
"No use.at all." He examined her carefully. The silence stretched between them. "And no use.hiding things from me. What's.wrong?"  
  
"Oh, just wedding jitters, I guess." She sat down on the side of the bed. "Don't all brides get them?"  
  
"Not.sure. Always.on the other.side of the issue.myself." His mouth twisted into a lopsided grin. "Your mother.wasn't."  
  
"No?"  
  
"No. She was.pretty calm. Said it was.a new start for.both of us." He was looking at her but seeing the past. His eyes clouded. "I wish.we'd had.more time. But I was stupid back then." He returned to the present and regarded her solemnly. "She always.believed in me. I loved her for it."  
  
"Dad -" Her voice faltered. A memory of her mother came to her, sewing the arm on her doll, humming a song under her breath. What were his memories?  
  
"This business today.has you scared. I can.see it." He licked his lips and puffed for breath. "Marston's.not like me. I killed.God forgive me.sometimes for.nothing better.than sport. Your man.killed for.something better." His head fell back and his eyes closed.  
  
"Yes, dad. I know." She got up and smoothed down the sheet. "Sleep now. Tomorrow you have to give away the bride."  
  
He didn't answer. His chest rose and fell with his even breath.  
  
Sam walked to the fireplace and looked at the embers. New starts could be frightening things but she'd faced frightening things before. And she'd survived. 


	24. The Wedding Reception And a Short Task

"I now pronounce you man and wife." The minister stepped back from the bed and closed his book, a genial smile wreathing his face. "You may kiss the bride."  
  
Elliott and Sam Marston, newly united under the laws of God and Western Australia, obeyed the injunction. Sam Flanagan watched with approval from his bed. Niall and Conn stood on either side of their father, the looks on their faces expressing their view of such public behavior. Liam watched stoically from his position as best man.  
  
"Thank you, Reverend." Marston stepped back from his wife. "A very nice ceremony." He reached up to the mantelpiece for the bottle of specially ordered champagne. With a flourish, he pulled the cork. As if released from a spell, everyone relaxed and began talking.  
  
Sam flushed with happiness and clutched her flowers tighter. The nurse leaned over the bed and checked Flanagan's pulse, ignoring his efforts to shake her off as he spoke to the minister. Melvin Collins, the lawyer, made conversation with an uncomfortable Liam whose collar seemed to be strangling him.  
  
Marston poured for all the adults, gave Liam a small portion in his glass and ignored the angelic curiosity of his youngest brothers-in-law.  
  
The nurse frowned as he handed a glass to her patient. "Very well, sir, as it's a special occasion. But mind! Only one." Marston nodded meekly and Flanagan winked at him.  
  
The buzz of conversation grew louder. The hotel manager and two waiters slipped into the room and began setting the table for luncheon. The boys watched with wide eyes as the food was brought in.  
  
Collins cornered Marston as he sipped his drink beside Sam. "We really have to go now, Elliott. It shouldn't take too long."  
  
Marston nodded and reached for his wife's hand. She looked up at him with a ready smile. "Do you think you can handle your brothers for the space of one lunch? I'll be back as soon as I can."  
  
"You think you're the only one who can keep them in line?" Sam's smile widened. "I'll have you know, sir, that I managed this herd for years before you came along."  
  
Marston pulled her close for a quick hug and whispered into her ear. "I'll be back soon." She kissed him in response.  
  
He pulled away. "All right, Melvin, let's go." 


	25. A New Opponent

The office of the Fremantle constabulary was across town but the two men disdained a carriage, preferring to walk. They passed wagons and cabs bogged down in the congested streets of the business district. Daytime shoppers crowded the sidewalks but were more easily maneuvered out of the way.  
  
"You can be frank now, Melvin. Tell me what the problem is." Marston jumped into the road to avoid a woman heavily burdened with parcels who insisted on walking down the middle of the sidewalk.  
  
"Well, I'm not sure that I - Oomph!" Collins clutched his ribs. "Sorry, ma'am, I didn't see you swing that parcel. My fault entirely. - I'm not sure that I understand it myself. But the constable was quite insistent that you come in to answer more questions."  
  
"Ches Watters was an insignificant thug." Marston frowned. "Did he have important friends who owed him favors?"  
  
"I'd never heard of him. But I'm just a shy company lawyer," Collins ignored his client's snort of derision. "And I don't move in exalted circles where important friends gather."  
  
The police office took up an entire city block, mostly to accommodate the jail cells in the back half of the building. Marston and Collins walked through the heavy barred doors and introduced themselves to the officer at the front desk. He ran a thick stubby finger down a penciled list in front of him and nodded. A junior officer came forward to escort them down the hall to the chief constable's office.  
  
The room was not crowded: the chief constable sat behind his desk and a prosperous-looking man in a fashionable suit occupied an upholstered leather chair for visitors. Pushed against the wall under the windows was an old table that served as working desk and file cabinet for the senior officers of the force.  
  
The office's owner looked up. "Hello, Mr. Marston. We're grateful that you could come." He looked around his guests at their escort. "Higgins, get Mr. Marston a chair. Many congratulations on your nuptials, sir."  
  
The officer brought forward a hard wooden chair and bowed himself out of the room. Marston sat down. Collins perched on the windowsill behind him. "Thank you, sir. You can appreciate my wish to get this interview over with."  
  
The chief constable coughed apologetically. "Well, Mr. Marston, as far as the force is concerned, you've answered all our questions just fine. But Mr. Buttershaw here, well, maybe I better let him tell it."  
  
Marston stared. "Buttershaw?"  
  
"Accept my sincere congratulations on this happy day, Mr. Marston." The prosperous-looking man nodded and held out his hand. "Robert Buttershaw, sir, of Wilson, Tait and Buttershaw. I'm pleased to make your acquaintance."  
  
Marston shook hands with the lawyer who was known throughout the entire state for his political ambitions, his wealth and his high social standing. Buttershaw's smile didn't reach his eyes. "My client is very interested in knowing more about this unfortunate incident."  
  
"What unfortunate incident?" Marston asked.  
  
"The death of Ches Watters, sir." Buttershaw responded, his smile disappearing.  
  
"Interesting description." Marston reached into his coat for a cigar and bit off the end. "I'm intrigued, Mr. Buttershaw. Who is your client?"  
  
"I'm not at liberty to say." Buttershaw turned to the chief constable. "Very well, George, you can get out now."  
  
"Well, Mr. Buttershaw, you see, it's my office and I really should - I mean it is still a police matter." The chief constable's voice trailed off unhappily under the lawyer's stare. "Call me if you need me." He stood up, grabbed an armful of paper and skittered out the door.  
  
Buttershaw leaned back in his chair. "Now we can talk."  
  
Marston and Collins exchanged looks. "About what?" Marston asked  
  
"About the death of Ches Watters and your incredible story to the police." Buttershaw put his hands behind his head and chuckled. "Impressing the little woman, were you?"  
  
Marston took a deep pull on his cigar. "I beg your pardon?"  
  
"Your contention that Mr. Watters seized your fiancee's brother and attempted to abduct him is clearly fantastic, Mr. Marston. I have several witnesses who can attest to Mr. Watters's conduct yesterday." Buttershaw was smiling again. "I'm afraid their version differs significantly from yours."  
  
"The stablehands who were present can verify," Collins stepped away from the windowsill. "That Mr. Marston was defending himself. Mr. Watters drew first."  
  
"I'm afraid, sir, you are incorrect. The witnesses say Mr. Watters never had a chance to pull his gun out. They also say that he never laid a hand on the boy." Buttershaw reached down beside his chair and lifted a leather case to his lap. After a moment's search, he pulled out a sheaf of papers. "Yes, here we are. You can see for yourself." He offered the papers to Collins.  
  
The younger lawyer sifted through them and handed them to his client. "Why do you have these papers, Mr. Buttershaw? Are they not police documents?"  
  
Marston paused in his perusal and waited for the answer.  
  
"Mr. Collins, I am well known here in the police offices as a - friend, shall we say? - of justice. I assure you I can be trusted with sensitive documents." Buttershaw seemed highly amused.  
  
"Mr. Buttershaw. I am a newly married man. I have left my wedding luncheon to come here." Marston leaned forward. "I would like to get out of here before my first anniversary comes up. What do you want?"  
  
"I do like working with businessmen, Mr. Marston. They know how to get to the point." Buttershaw hitched his chair ahead and mimicked Marston's stance. "Very well. I want you to retract your story. You drew first in the honestly mistaken belief that you were in danger. You will not be charged with murder. I guarantee it."  
  
Marston stared. "Go to hell."  
  
"Not during office hours. It wouldn't be billable." Buttershaw sighed. "Look, Marston, you're not the only one who has better things to do with his time today. Let's call George back in here, get your statement down on paper and we can both get on with our lives."  
  
"I will not change my statement. Watters tried to abduct my wife's brother, he drew first and I reacted." Marston tossed his cigar butt away. His voice was chilled steel.  
  
"Marston, I'm really sorry to hear you say that." Buttershaw's expression did not change. "And you will be, too; that I can promise you." 


	26. Where's Elliott?

"Oh please, Sam! I want that one." Conn took his thumb out of his mouth long enough to point to the top shelf. The sales clerk beamed with approval and started climbing the ladder.  
  
Sam laughed. "All right, I guess one more package won't make much difference."  
  
The clerk began his descent, carefully balancing the box in one hand. By the time he reached the last rung, Conn was holding out his hands for the tin soldiers. He clutched the box to his chest and smiled at his sister.  
  
Sam looked around the store. Shopping at Kavanagh's Emporium was a luxury the Flanagans had never been able to afford. She could not rid herself of the feeling that the elegant floor manager in his severe black coat would see past their newly-purchased attire and ask them to leave. But whenever she caught his eye he bowed and smiled, his manner an indication of the respect due to Mrs. Elliott Marston.  
  
"Where's Elliott, Sam?" As if he'd read her mind, Niall looked up from examining his own purchases. "You said you left a note for him that we were coming here."  
  
"I did. But you know, love, he's got very important business to take care of. I'm sure he'll be here soon." Sam bent over to admire the tin soldier Conn was holding up.  
  
"But it's your wedding day." Niall frowned.  
  
"Shut up, you little twerp! He'll be here when he can." Liam scowled in his most grown-up manner and folded his arms across his chest. "He told me before he left that he'd be back as soon as he could."  
  
The most amazing event of a most amazing week was the total change in Liam's attitude to Elliott. From aggressive hostility to worshipful reverence, the transformation had been staggering. Sam wasn't sure she was comfortable with it but there was no denying that it made life easier.  
  
And it was only to be expected that Liam would be grateful to the man who'd probably saved his life. Sam reached out and ruffled her brother's hair; he flushed and ducked away from her hand. He was still a boy even though he tried so hard to be the man of the family. She was glad he had ceded the position to Elliott who was better qualified to fill it.  
  
"Well, if we've finished buying out the store, we should get back to the hotel." Sam watched in amusement as clerks swept in from all sides to pick up parcels and carry them to the waiting carriage. It would be very easy to get used to this treatment.  
  
They were on the sidewalk outside the store watching Conn try to climb into the carriage without letting go of his tin soldiers when the hotel messenger boy found them. He ran up, breathless and panting, and collapsed against the carriage wheel.  
  
"Oh Miss - I mean Mrs. Marston! Ye've got to come real quick!" He paused to suck in a lungful of air. "The nurse sent me. Yer pa - he's turned bad. Ye've got to come back now." His commission discharged, he sagged almost to the ground.  
  
The boys froze and turned as one to stare at Sam. Conscious of their dependence and trying to stay calm herself, she took a deep breath. "Very well. Thank you very much for bringing the message." She turned back to her brothers. "You heard the message. Get in the carriage." They scrambled to obey. With a nod of thanks to the clerks and a word to the driver to take the exhausted messenger up beside him on the seat, she took her seat beside Conn.  
  
"Now then," she began. "We know that Dad has been sick before and has always recovered. I want you to remember that."  
  
Three pairs of large eyes stared back at her. Niall voiced the thoughts they all had. "But what if this time he doesn't?"  
  
"Then we must pray that he is comfortable and not in pain." Sam swallowed hard. "Hey, the doctor will be with Dad by now. Let's not get scared until we know exactly what's happened. All right?"  
  
"All right." Liam was staring out the window, blinking rapidly.  
  
"Okay." Niall swept at his eyes with his sleeve.  
  
"Mmmm." Conn had his thumb in his mouth again.  
  
Sam closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the seat, grateful for a delay of any length. She prayed that Elliott would be at the hotel when they got back. She didn't know how she'd hold up if he weren't there.  
  
************************************************************  
  
"I want a telegram sent to the Governor General. Immediately."  
  
"Let's be rational about -"  
  
"Then I want the Attorney General's office petitioned. I'm going to get that bastard disbarred."  
  
"Elliott, I know you're upset. But -"  
  
"Did you hear me? Disbarred!"  
  
"Elliott, you're not listening to me. We've got to proceed carefully. Somebody very big is behind all of this."  
  
Marston leaned against the hard brick wall, his arms folded and his eyes flashing fire. "I don't care who's behind it! They can't do this to me!"  
  
"Well, I hate to point out the obvious but they have." Collins sighed and dropped his head on his chest. After a count of ten, he looked up again. "Look, you know better than this. You don't have the luxury right now of indulging in a tantrum. We're up against something really powerful and we've got to know more."  
  
Marston took a deep breath and let it out in a loud sigh. "You're right. I know that." He leaned forward and dropped his voice to a near whisper. "Do whatever you have to do. Spend how much you have to. Just get me out of here." He paused for a moment. "And get word to Sam for me. She'll be worried."  
  
Collins nodded. "I'll do that first thing." He rose to his feet quickly. "Just don't get into trouble when I'm gone." He picked up his briefcase and with a brisk nod turned away.  
  
At the large door at the end of the hall he turned back. His client watched him from his cell, his knuckles white as he clutched the bars. Collins nodded again and waved. Marston nodded back and let go of the bars. The door clanged shut behind the lawyer.  
  
As he walked down the wooden sidewalk, Collins interrupted his plans to wonder about the unknown man who would dare arrange for Elliott Marston to be arrested and jailed for murder. And he felt very sorry for that unknown man.  
  
Because he was going to be in for a nasty surprise. 


	27. Losing a Father and Regaining a Husband

It wasn't until the armed guard at the door turned away to hide his tears that Sam finally accepted that her father was dead.  
  
Until that moment she had been able to pretend that the minister was present to raise the family's spirits and that the doctor was taking her father's pulse as he held his wrist. Even when the two men stood in front of her, professional sympathy brimming in their eyes, she expected to be told that the situation was grave or serious or even critical. But their words had flowed over her in a meaningless stream until she caught sight of the guard averting his head.  
  
The minister walked around her to her brothers who huddled together in grief, their sobs hushed and frightened. She turned around slowly. The nurse was carefully covering her patient's body with a sheet, unfolding it from the foot of the bed until it covered the face and reached the headboard. The doctor stood beside her, waiting to answer her questions but tapping his foot and running his stethoscope through his fingers again and again. The room was full of people and empty at the same time.  
  
How could one man have become so indispensable to her well being in a few short months that a room without him in it was desolate and barren? She was not sure of the answer but there was no denying the reality.  
  
Sam walked to the window and stared at the town below. People walked about their business, gilded by the setting sun, with no notion of what was happening in a room above their heads. It seemed incredible. The scene blurred suddenly as tears overflowed her eyes.  
  
The nurse was beside her, coaxing her back into the room with quiet, bracing smiles. Liam was upright beside his brothers, now the man of the family in truth. Niall and Conn sobbed oblivious on the sofa. The minister was standing by the bed, head bowed and hands clasped in prayer. The doctor was gone.  
  
A movement in the doorway caught her eye. Her heart leapt in hope before she recognized the lawyer who'd attended her wedding - was it only that morning? Melvin Collins stepped into the room then halted, his eyes drawn to the bed. He retreated half a step into the hall, then scanned the room until he saw her. His attitude was one of respectful urgency.  
  
Sam followed him. They stood in front of a martial painting hanging at the top of the stairs with a clear view of anyone coming upon them from below or along the corridor.  
  
"Mrs. Marston, I'm awfully sorry to be bringing you bad news at a time like this -" he began.  
  
She suppressed a hysterical giggle.  
  
"- but I'm afraid that Elliott is in some trouble." He paused, struggling for more words.  
  
"Is he hurt? Or -" She couldn't say the word one more time today.  
  
"No!" He reached out his hands and patted the air in front of him. "Not at all. But the interview at the chief constable's office didn't go very well and he's been arrested."  
  
Sam closed her eyes. "What happened - No." She looked up and met the lawyer's worried stare forthrightly. "What happened isn't important. What do we do now?"  
  
Collins took a deep breath and let it out in a rush. "Thank God. I was afraid of how you might take it." Then he smiled. "I need your signature on some bank papers. We're going to have to bribe his way out."  
  
"Where are they?" She was proud of her coolness. It felt good to be doing something that would bring about results.  
  
"Right here. Just sign at the bottom." He reached into his coat and pulled out three pages of thick parchment stock. As he watched her, he explained. "It takes a lot of money to buy a man out of jail and I didn't want to touch your bank balance. Too easy to verify. The sale of these bonds will cover everything nicely. I'll give the surplus to Elliott."  
  
"We'll do it together. Where's the jail?" She was already walking down the hall to their room where her clothes had been transferred during the afternoon.  
  
"Where's the - ? You can't go there!" The lawyer's jaw dropped open. He bounded after her. "Elliott would kill me if I let you go there."  
  
"You're not letting me." Sam unlocked the door. The polished walnut of the large wardrobe shone warmly under the rays of the setting sun. She reached for her coat. "You can't stop me."  
  
"Oh my God." Collins paced the rug behind her. Then he froze. "What's that for?"  
  
"It's for shooting things." Sam lifted the gun out of the drawer and sighted down the barrel. Then she checked the chambers. Fully loaded. She slid it into her purse and checked the weight. With a nod she turned to her escort. "All right, I'm ready."  
  
"Well I'm glad one of us is." Collins stepped in front of her as she swept to the door. "Look, Mrs. Marston -"  
  
"Since it looks like we'll be working together on this, you might as well call me Sam." She waited for him to continue.  
  
"Thank you. Look, Sam, jails are not the sort of place for women like you. Let me go back and take care of things." He eyed the set look of her jaw for a moment. "And with the greatest of respect, you shouldn't leave your family at a time like this." He stepped back quickly.  
  
Sam inhaled deeply, held her breath for a moment then let it out. "Mr. Collins." She took a step forward. He immediately retreated again. "No one knows better than I do what my family needs. And right now, more than ever, they need my husband. And I am going to get him." She lifted her purse and dangled it in front of his eyes. "And I don't particularly care who I have to shoot to do it. Now stop wasting time and let's go."  
  
She strode into the hall. Collins followed and watched glumly as she locked the door. "You're a bold woman, Sam. I don't know whether to congratulate Elliott or offer my condolences."  
  
"Why thank you, Mr. Collins. That's quite a compliment. Remind me to say something nice about you sometime." 


	28. Freemantle's Finest on the Case

Elliott Marston stared through the bars at his visitor. "But I've already answered these questions." Elliott Marston closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the wall. "Don't you have the answers written down?"  
  
"That was the police." The large man in the badly fitting suit rummaged in his tattered case with one beefy hand. He pulled out a notebook and pencil. "I'm with the army. Sergeant Albert Tomlinson. Intelligence Unit."  
  
A more sensitive man might have been offended at the look on Marston's face. "Really?"  
  
"Now then," He licked his pencil and shifted into a more comfortable position. The chair creaked ominously. "Now then, why did you kill this 'ere - what's 'is name now?" Tomlinson checked his book. "Ches Watters?"  
  
"Because he tried to kill me first." Marston measured out his words as he watched the pencil move slowly across the page.  
  
"But you're still alive." Tomlinson put his finger on the flaw in the other's argument. "'ow's that then?"  
  
"I pulled my gun faster than he did." Marston began to count the bars in the cell door.  
  
"Pulled it where?" The sergeant looked up and frowned. His pencil hovered over the page.  
  
"I pulled it out of my holster with my right hand, pointed it at Watters and pulled the trigger." The rancher patiently enunciated each syllable. "And he did the same. But he was slower at it than I was. So I shot him first."  
  
"Ah." The sergeant scribbled away. "Why couldn't you say that plain right away then?"  
  
"Sorry." There were fourteen bars. Marston transferred his gaze and started counting the bricks in the wall.  
  
"Now then, why did 'e try to kill you?"  
  
"Because I told him to let go of my wife's brother. Watters grabbed him and tried to drag him out of the stable." Had it been thirty-two or thirty- three? Marston frowned and started counting again.  
  
"Why did 'e grab 'im in the first place?" Tomlinson looked up, his brows knitted in perplexity.  
  
"I don't know. He just did." Yes, there were definitely thirty-three. Marston looked at the other man for the first time.  
  
Tomlinson put down his pencil and crossed his arms. "For no reason at all? Don't seem likely to me."  
  
"I didn't say he had no reason." Marston controlled himself. "All I'm saying is I don't know what it was."  
  
For a long moment the sergeant regarded him. Then he picked up his pencil again and resumed work on his notebook. "All right then." He finished and looked up. "What did your wife do?"  
  
"Nothing. She was too far away."  
  
"Didn't scream or nothing?" Tomlinson leaned forward in a confidential manner. "Most women woulda been screeching like a wet hen, if you wants my opinion."  
  
"Well, Sam's not like that." Marston pulled his thoughts away from his wife. It was too painful.  
  
"Sam?" The sergeant's eyes popped. "I thought we were talkin' about your wife!"  
  
"My wife's name is Sam."  
  
"But that's a man's name." Tomlinson frowned in concentration. "Look 'ere. This sounds mighty strange to me. Why would a woman have a man's name? Eh?"  
  
"It's a family name." Marston closed his eyes again and dropped his head in his hands. "Her father picked it out."  
  
"Well that's as may be." The sergeant sat back in his chair and looked at the rancher as if from a great height. "But when you first hear it, it sounds almost pre-verted, if you know what I mean."  
  
Before Marston could respond to this statement in an appropriate manner, the sound of the heavy metal door reached them. It screamed on its hinges then clanged shut again. Hurrying footsteps echoed down the hall.  
  
"Elliott!" Sam appeared, her face framed by the bars. "Are you alright?"  
  
"Sam!" Marston rocketed to his feet, then leaped to the door. "What are you doing here? This is no place for you? Melvin!" He transferred his attention to the lawyer hanging back in the shadows. "How could you -?"  
  
Sam punched him through the bars. "Don't you shout at Melvin. He tried to keep me away." She put her hands over his. "It didn't work."  
  
Collins looked at his client with smouldering resentment. "You could have warned me, you know."  
  
Marston looked at Sam and smiled in spite of himself. "Well, you wouldn't have believed me." He lifted one hand to his lips and pressed a kiss on her knuckles. "Sometimes I can't believe it myself."  
  
She smiled back and clutched his fingers. "Believe it, mister."  
  
"What's all this now?" Sergeant Tomlinson lumbered forward, frowning in an authoritative manner. "I ain't finished questioning this man."  
  
"Mr. Marston has been released. I have the authorization right here." Collins reached through the bars and waved the papers in the air.  
  
The sergeant took them and read them carefully, his finger running along each line. There was silence for a moment, then a loud harrumph as he returned the papers to the lawyer. "All right then. Be off with you. Think is was a bloody church social going on 'ere." He gathered up his notebook and case and disappeared down the hall.  
  
Marston pulled his coat and hat off the bed and reached for his wife's arm. "Let's go. We've got a lot to talk about."  
  
"Yes." Sam swallowed hard. "We do." 


	29. Funeral Thoughts and a Surprise

"Amen."  
  
The small group of people around the freshly dug pit echoed the minister. The wind pulled at their clothing and rustled the flowers that adorned the pine box. For several minutes they waited, then one by one they drifted away until only the minister and his wife remained with the family.  
  
"Come on, darling. Let's let the men go about their business." Elliott Marston pulled his wife away as the gravediggers appeared from behind the trees by the path, their shovels over their shoulders. The men proceeded to their work and the rhythmic sound of earth being piled on wood was soon heard.  
  
Sam Marston clung to her husband's hand as they walked to their carriage. "You know, something just occurred to me."  
  
"What's that, dear?" They were several steps behind the children and the nurse but he lowered his voice to ensure privacy.  
  
"Three days ago there were two Sam Flanagans." She looked up with swimming eyes. "Now there aren't any at all." A smile quivered bravely on her lips but disappeared as her tears began to fall.  
  
Marston turned and pulled her into his arms. He held her tightly as the sobs wracked her body for several minutes. Giving comfort was not something he had a great deal of experience with. He had been far more assured at making the funeral arrangements and arranging for the nurse to stay on to deal with the younger boys until Sam was feeling better.  
  
The great sobs had changed to less emotional weeping but still Sam clung to his coat. He looked over her head at the rest of the family gathered by the carriage. Liam started to walk towards them but stopped when Marston shook his head. He gestured to his brother-in-law to return to the others, then tenderly pulled Sam upright and kissed her brow.  
  
"Stay here while I send the others on their way." He whispered into her hair.  
  
"All right." She sniffed indelicately but seemed to have regained her composure. Marston left her leaning against a small flowering tree that shielded her from the looks of passers-by.  
  
The nurse was holding hands with Niall and Conn inside the carriage. Liam hovered around the steps, shifting from foot to foot in his uncertainty. Marston put his hand on his shoulder and squeezed it. Liam smiled up at him.  
  
"Mrs. Marston and I will take a cab back to the hotel. We'll see you there." Marston slapped Liam on the shoulder. "Come on now, up you get." The boy scrambled inside. Marston nodded at the driver and the carriage lurched forward.  
  
He turned back. Sam was directly behind him, pale but composed again. He slipped his arm around her shoulder. "Let's go find a cab."  
  
They walked along the path to the main gate. The cemetery was not attached to any church as it was often used by the town to bury people whose religious bonds were unknown. Sam had selected the location because it contained a picturesque creek overhung with willows. It was a peaceful site and she paused at the gate to look back at it. The gravediggers were still at their work.  
  
"Feeling better?" Marston winced. It was such a ridiculous question.  
  
But she nodded. "Yes, actually I do." She slid her arm around his waist, uncaring of the stares of the censorious. "It was terrible to see him wasting away like that. It's a blessing that it's over."  
  
Silence fell between them for some moments. Marston waved a cab driver over to the curb. They climbed in and settled themselves into comfortable positions.  
  
"You know, you're lucky that you had him for all those years." Marston stared out the window, his arm still around her shoulders and his fingers playing with a strand of her hair. "My parents were killed when I was four years old. Aborigines raided our wagon train. I don't remember them very clearly."  
  
"How awful." Sam hugged him tightly. "You know, I really don't know much about you." She looked up, pensive, then kissed him.  
  
"We've got a lifetime to answer each other's questions. And even then it probably won't be long enough." He kissed her back, then pulled her head down on his shoulder.  
  
Sam listened to her husband's steady heartbeat through his vest as she watched the town pass by outside the window. Who was this man? What did she actually know about him? It was startling to think she'd married someone she really knew so little about.  
  
She hugged him tighter. It had been a hectic courtship (putting it mildly!) and a traumatic beginning to their married life, but things would be different now. They could return to the ranch with the boys and start a new life together. Everything would be fine from now on.  
  
The cab pulled up in front of the hotel and they disembarked. The doorman bowed them through the entrance with his usual dignity. Almost immediately inside the lobby they met the manager, his face drawn with concern.  
  
"Mr. Marston, I'm afraid I have some very unfortunate news." He took a deep breath and let it out in a rush.  
  
Sam clenched her fists at her sides. "Is it Conn? Or Niall? What happened?"  
  
Before the manager could speak there was an explosion of noise behind them. It was Niall, bursting with news and energy. "Sam! The rooms upstairs! Someone's gone through them! Clothes and books and papers and everything's all over the place. You'd better come quick and see." 


	30. An Unexpected Visitor

"There doesn't seem to be anything missing." Sam Marston pushed the list across the table to Melvin Collins. "But someone went through everything very thoroughly and didn't care who knew it or what he destroyed in the process."  
  
Collins ran his eye down the page before sliding it into his coat pocket. "Everything will be replaced by tonight. How are the children reacting?"  
  
"Very excited, actually. It's quite ghoulish." Sam smiled in spite of herself. "And it's taken their minds off.other things."  
  
"Yes, I understand." Collins stood up. "If there's nothing else.? Elliott?"  
  
The man staring out the window didn't respond at first. Finally he looked over his shoulder. "No, Melvin, there's nothing else. We'll talk later." Collins nodded at the dismissal and left.  
  
Marston resumed his examination of the street below. The gaslights gave off a ghostly glow in the advancing twilight. Carriages pulled up in front of the hotel and disgorged the gentry of Fremantle in their evening finery. The doormen would be kept busy until the dinner hour was far advanced.  
  
"I guess the honeymoon's over when a man would rather look at the street than his wife." Two arms slipped around his waist as the voice whispered in his ear.  
  
He reached around and pulled her to his side. "Feeling neglected, are you?"  
  
"Feeling overwhelmed, actually. It's been a trying week." She looked up at him. "What are we going to do?"  
  
His expression was grim. "I have no faith in the chief constable anymore. We're on our own." He squeezed her shoulder affectionately and smiled down at her. "Where are those in-laws of mine?"  
  
"Having dinner with Miss Stone in the restaurant. I hope they're not too much of a handful for her."  
  
"Then it's the perfect time to take a closer look at their rooms." Marston let her go reluctantly. It had taken a great deal of effort to keep the boys out of their rooms so that Sam could determine if anything was removed. They would have to work quickly before dinner was over.  
  
"But nothing was taken." Sam was already at the door.  
  
"No, but something may have been left behind."  
  
*  
  
They started in the room shared by the younger boys. It was not large, with two single beds and one closet. The trunks containing their new clothes and toys were back in their proper places. Niall's books were piled on the bureau and Conn's tin soldiers made a large lump under his pillow, where he had hid them to be safe. All of Sam's persuasive talents had failed to alter his fixed belief that the invader had been searching for his soldiers and that only a miracle had prevented their abduction.  
  
Marston and Sam divided the room between them. Sam knelt on the floor and checked under the furniture, paying particular attention to the desk under the window. Marston looked at the closet floor and examined the area around the trunks. There was no sign of anything that didn't belong in the room. Finally they looked at each other in surrender.  
  
"Liam's room." Sam spoke with confidence.  
  
That room took even less time to inspect. In minutes they were back in the hallway, frustrated and hot.  
  
"Our rooms?"  
  
"Yes." Marston frowned. The condition of their suite had puzzled him since their return from the funeral. Sam's room had received the same treatment as the others: ransacked and disordered. The same was true of their dressing room. But his bedroom and office remained untouched. Or so they had assumed.  
  
"Mister Marston, sir?" They turned. The clerk bowed jerkily, and handed over a message. He retreated several steps and waited for the reply.  
  
Marston opened the message. "deer Sir, you mae be intrested to noe what I noe about Ches Watters. Sum fokes wud pay lots to heer it." It was unsigned. He turned it over and looked at the back. "Who gave you this?"  
  
"A man who's waiting downstairs, sir. The manager put him in the coatroom." The look on the clerk's face indicated that he thought the manager had been excessively kind to the visitor. "This man would like to see you most urgently, sir."  
  
"Very well. Tell him I'll be right down." He waited until the clerk was on the stairs before responding to Sam's look of inquiry and tugs on his sleeve. "This may prove interesting, as our new friend promises." 


	31. A Missed Opportunity

Scene Thirty-One:  
  
The cloakroom off the kitchens of the Royal Hotel was just the sort of elegant side room that the most prestigious hotel in the colony would be likely to have. Although never entered by any but the hotel staff, it was decorated in the same creamy colors as the finest staterooms upstairs. The cut crystal vase on the delicate table in the middle of the floor always contained freshly cut flowers. Graceful side chairs that could have ornamented the boudoirs of royalty were scattered about, their striped cushions in pale green and dull gold. The sole occupant of the room perched stiffly on one of them.  
  
Elliott Marston stood on the threshold and examined him. He was just the sort of person that the most prestigious hotel in the colony would be likely to have working in the stable, if the regular employees were taken ill and anyone at all would do. He was an old man, with a lined and weathered face and scruffy white hair. His palms rested on his knees, then ran along his legs, then clasped in front of him before finally being shoved in his pockets. He jumped to his feet as Marston entered.  
  
"You Sam Flanagan?" He rushed into speech, thrusting the question ahead of him like a battering ram.  
  
"No." Marston decided that it would do no harm to maintain a superior manner. "He's dead. What do you want him for?"  
  
The old man seemed genuinely surprised. He blinked rapidly for a moment, then stared at the floor. Marston waited patiently.  
  
"I got some news for Flanagan." He seemed reluctant to accept the news he'd just heard.  
  
"Well, that's too bad. We buried him this morning." Marston walked to the loveseat under the small oil painting between the windows. He seated himself, then pulled one of his cigars out of his pocket. The old man stared at it and licked his lips. "Who are you?"  
  
"Crabbs, the name's Hiram Crabbs." He couldn't seem to take his eyes off the cigar, watching intently as Marston lit it and inhaled the smoke. "Me and Ches Watters, we was real close. Ches told me a lot of stuff." Crabbs' eyes turned cunning. "Thought Flanagan might like to hear it."  
  
"Flanagan couldn't care less right now." Marston exhaled and watched the ash glow hotly. "But I might be interested."  
  
"I heared your name. You're Marston, the rancher." Crabbs pointed a shaking finger at him. "You're the one what shot poor Ches."  
  
"What's your news?"  
  
"Ches and me went drinking the night before you -" Marston looked up with a mean eye. The old man flinched. "I mean, before he was killed. He wanted to meet Flanagan real bad."  
  
"I heard he wanted Flanagan to do some work for him. Work Flanagan wasn't interested in." Marston sprawled back on the sofa, his legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankle. His air of ennui seemed to annoy his visitor.  
  
"Yes, well, that's what you think. But I know different." Crabbs sidled up to Marston and leaned forward confidentially. A powerful aroma of cheap whiskey smote the air. "Ches did it for a favor for someone. Someone who wanted Flanagan some bad." He leaned back and leered for a moment, his mouth revealing black stumps where some of his teeth used to be.  
  
"Who?" Marston gazed up through half-closed eyes at the cigar smoke drifting up in a lazy spiral.  
  
The old man's grin broadened. "How much?"  
  
"You're annoying me." He blew another cloud and watched its progress.  
  
"It were somebody real big who had it in for Flanagan. He was real mad that Ches couldn't get Flanagan to agree to a meeting so's that Flanagan could be killed. Ches said," Crabbs paused and looked over his shoulder at the open door. Then he leaned forward and dropped his voice to a hoarse whisper. "Ches said the man hated Flanagan for years." He stepped back and tried to gauge the effect of his words.  
  
Marston returned the other's scrutiny. It wasn't likely that the old man had any real information about Watters' business. But he might know a name. Whether he was prepared to surrender it easily was still to be determined.  
  
"In other words, you don't know anything. You're wasting my time." Marston stood up suddenly, his fluid movement startling the old man into skittering back a few steps. He reached into his vest and drew out a gold coin between two fingers so it could be seen. Crabbs stared at it hungrily. "And I haven't got all day."  
  
"I'll give you the name of the man who Ches dealt with. But I want one hundred gold pieces. Then I can tell you."  
  
"You must be joking." Marston replaced the coin in his pocket. He strode to the door. "Now you'd better leave before you get thrown out of here."  
  
"Look, Marston, I ain't fooling you. This man, he's important in this town." Crabbs moved to block the exit, his arms extended on either side. "You don't understand -"  
  
Marston pushed his way past. He fully expected the old man's greed to work in his favor. Crabbs followed him down the hall, huffing almost tearfully, entreating that attention be paid. They entered the lobby, empty save for hotel employees who looked outraged at this violation of the Royal's portals.  
  
"Please listen to me!" Crabbs grabbed Marston's arm and pulled him to a halt. "You got to - " He froze in mid-sentence, staring in horror to the street beyond.  
  
Marston glanced quickly over his shoulder and saw nothing to evoke such a reaction. The crowded sidewalk was full of shoppers as usual. Horses and wagons crowded the road beyond them. He looked back at his visitor.  
  
Crabbs let go of his arm and backed slowly away from him. His eyes were glassy were fear and he cowered back as he retreated. Then he whirled on his heel and rushed to the back of the hotel, finally running through the service entrance to the stableyard beyond.  
  
Marston turned and marched outside to scan the street. The shoppers were still there along with some businessmen leaving their offices after working late. Two soldiers were tying up their horses at the tavern across the road and carters were unloading sacks from the back of a large wagon in the ally beyond. One of the laborers glanced up at the hotel and then went back to work.  
  
Marston frowned thoughtfully and returned to the lobby. He had the strangest feeling that something had just slipped through his fingers.  
  
And it was not a feeling he liked. 


	32. The Wedding Night

Scene Thirty-Two:  
  
The feeling that he had made an error in judgement by allowing his visitor to depart accompanied Elliott Marston as he climbed the main stairway. It was still with him as he walked down the hallway and only faded outside the door of his suite when he heard his wife's voice within. Then it disappeared completely.  
  
Pausing with his hand on the knob, he could feel his heart beating rapidly. Dared he hope that tonight would - finally - be their wedding night? The exigencies of the past few days, Sam's grief after the death of her father, the boys' needs for reassurance in their newly orphaned state: all had combined to prevent them from embarking on their newly wedded life together.  
  
He had not pressed for his marital rights. The needs of his new family came before his own and he did not begrudge them at all. It was an awfully big adventure they were undertaking. Only it would be wonderful to be truly, madly, deeply married in every way. He took a deep breath and turned the doorknob.  
  
The room was dark except for two candles on the table, gleaming off the silverware and bone china. The aroma of an excellent dinner assailed his nostrils. Sam was nowhere to be seen.  
  
He walked to the table. A bottle of fine wine stood beside one of the plates, still wrapped in the waiter's linen towel. The tiny flames flickered suddenly. He turned. Sam stood in the doorway to her room, clad in creamy silk and lace. She was mesmerizing.  
  
Marston swallowed as he stared at the vision in front of him. She floated across the carpet soundlessly. He couldn't take his eyes off her.  
  
"How did your meeting go?" She stopped in front of him, smiling warmly.  
  
"What meeting?" He blinked. "Oh, that one. Not so good."  
  
"Oh?" She frowned in exaggerated sympathy. "You poor darling. Take your coat off," She slipped behind him and slid it off his shoulders, tugging to pull it down his arms. "And sit down. I ordered a special dinner for us tonight."  
  
"So I see." He groped for his chair. "Where are the boys?"  
  
"They're all in bed. Miss Stone let them eat lobster and it was all Conn could talk about. I think they're starting to recover." Sam proceeded to the wardrobe and hung up his coat, pausing to run her hand slowly down the fine fabric of a sleeve. "Not that they're not going to miss Dad. But they've got a lot of sense and sensibility, and they know that it's important to remember the good times." She closed the wardrobe door and seemed to be lost in thought for a moment.  
  
"And you? How do you feel?" He watched her narrowly.  
  
She looked up and smiled again. "Never better."  
  
For the first time he smiled back. "Then come over here and let's have dinner."  
  
He had almost forgotten the pleasure of just being in her company. The food was excellent but he knew he wouldn't remember the menu an hour later. They drank wine out of the same glass and fed each other choice morsels. He teased her into eating more filet mignon. She nuzzled him into sharing truffles with her. By the time the meal was over he knew all over again that he could search the galaxy, quest as he might, but he could never find the woman to equal her.  
  
The candles guttered in their holders. The evening breeze lifted the window curtains gently. Still they sat at the table, not talking, sipping their shared wine and occasionally indulging in lazy kisses.  
  
By turning their heads slightly they could see the immense king-size bed through the french doors. Down pillows like small foothills rested against the bedstead. White roses bloomed in vases on the side tables. The covers were turned back in warm invitation.  
  
Marston placed the now empty wineglass on the table. Lifting his wife's hand, he bestowed kisses along each finger, finally turning to press his lips to her palm. She smiled at the tickling sensation of his tongue. He looked up and asked a question with his eyes. She answered in the same silent language. Then he rose swiftly, pulled her up and swept her into his arms.  
  
She hugged him tightly, pressing her face into his neck as if suddenly shy. He strode through the doors and deposited her gently on the bed. With as much of his fast evaporating control he could muster, he began to disrobe. He fumbled with the buttons on his vest. She tried to help. Finally he took a firm grip on the points and pulled. The buttons went spinning through the air and landed on the carpet and the tables. Sam giggled.  
  
He smiled down at her. Wanting to reassure, feeling as if he needed reassurance himself. The vest was tossed in the direction of a chair. He pulled his shirt free of his trousers, considered the number of fastenings on cuffs and front, then pulled it over his head in one fast motion. Sam laughed out loud. He grinned like a boy.  
  
Marriage was a journey, he thought; they would sail on placid seas and explore many a dark harbor. But as long as they were together, it would be a great adventure.  
  
The shirt joined the vest in short order. Sam moved quickly and placed her hands on his belt buckle. She tugged at the leather, freeing it from the loops on his trousers. He froze, closing his eyes in anticipation and praying for control. The belt slid through her fingers sibilantly. His breathing was shallow and rapid.  
  
Sam looked up and licked her lips. Their eyes met and held. He took her hands in his and brought them to his trouser buttons, pressing her fingers firmly against the cloth. Her lips parted and her lids closed. She tilted her head back. He leaned forward.  
  
And the still night air was rent by a passionate cry.  
  
"Sam! My tummy doesn't feel good! I'm going to be -" The most expensive dinner available at the Royal Hotel abandoned the stomach of Conn Flanagan with considerably more speed than it had shown when entering.  
  
Another voice rang through the hall. This time is was Niall. "THAT'S DISGUSTING!"  
  
For ten long endless seconds husband and wife stared at each other. Then Sam was running for the door. Marston closed his eyes and fell face first onto the bed. He winced, then rolled over onto his back, his arm flung over his eyes.  
  
For the next half-hour he listened as his youngest brother-in-law was cleaned up and tucked in for the night again. Niall offered brotherly commentary on the folly of siblings who ate too much rich food in a manner reminiscent of barnyard animals. Sam's voice was too low for him to make out her words but her tone of sympathy soothed Conn's abdominal anguish effectively.  
  
In spite of himself, Marston chuckled. He was not about to give up. His confidence was strong and not about to die hard tonight. 


	33. The Visitor Pops Up Again

"I'm not sitting beside Conn if he eats like a pig again." Niall made the announcement from the doorway, casting a suspicious look at his brother.  
  
Conn flushed. "I do not eat like a pig!" His lower lip trembled and he shifted his stuffed kangaroo to his left hand, thus ensuring that his right thumb was available to provide important emotional support.  
  
Elliott Marston put down his cutlery and frowned. "Niall, you will not speak to your brother in such a manner. Come and sit down."  
  
It was a pity there were no guidebooks available for new brothers-in-law, he mused as he ate. He could certainly use one now. While his relations with Liam had improved dramatically, he wished the boy would not look at him with such adoration. Hero worship was not a stable basis for a lifetime bond.  
  
Hero worship was not what he had felt for Cal Torken. He had recollections of pond duckings and practical jokes that were spectacularly unfunny. He grimaced. No, certainly affection was not the right word at all.  
  
"Can we go to the Emporium again, Elliott?" Niall spoke around his oatmeal. Marston averted his eyes. "I want to get another book." He retrieved his escaping breakfast with his spoon.  
  
"Now, look, Elliott is a busy man. You can't expect him to be available every day." Sam took her napkin and cleaned up as much of her younger brother as she could reach.  
  
"Oh. Sorry." The boy looked crestfallen.  
  
"I do have some business this morning, Niall." Marston infused as much joviality into his voice as he could muster in the morning. "But this afternoon should be fine. If there's no more fighting."  
  
The boys sat up straighter. "Yes, sir!" They fell on their oatmeal with renewed enthusiasm. Sam and Marston looked at each other across the table and shared a secret smile.  
  
They were well and truly married now. For the rest of their lives they could look at each other and share memories that no one else could ever know. Like the glowing embers in the fireplace at midnight. He almost laughed. Or the frantic search for his missing vest buttons before the maid came to clean the bedroom.  
  
He was so lost in thought he didn't hear the knock or the door opening. "Morning, Elliott." Melvin Collins stood on the threshold, his briefcase clasped under one arm.  
  
Marston blinked and spilled some tea. "Oh, good morning. Have you eaten yet?" He gestured to the sideboard loaded with chafing dishes.  
  
Collins held up one hand. "No thanks. I had a visit from someone interesting this morning. At my home." He hesitated and looked at the boys, now watching with interest.  
  
Sam understood. "Come on now. Let's go get ready for shopping." She herded her siblings out the door and pulled it shut behind her.  
  
The two men looked at each other. Finally Marston spoke. "Who was your visitor?"  
  
Collins slipped into Sam's vacant chair. "You know, Elliott, we have a very good relationship. More than just lawyer and client, I always thought." He pushed the china aside and leaned his elbows on the table. His voice was somber.  
  
Marston's brows rose. "I always thought so too. What's wrong?"  
  
The lawyer ignored the question. "And that's what I said this morning. But when the chief of detectives comes to my door with information about your activities that I know nothing about.Well, let's just say I have to wonder."  
  
Marston stared. "A detective?"  
  
"No, the chief of detectives. From the police. He investigates murders." Collins shifted in his seat and adjusted his glasses. "You had a talk with a man yesterday in the lobby of this hotel. According to witnesses, you seemed to be quarrelling."  
  
"His name was Hiram Crabbs. He said he had information about Ches Watters and was willing to sell it. We were negotiating." Marston put his cup down very carefully on its saucer. "Unsuccessfully, it turned out. Have the police picked him up?"  
  
"No, they've cut him down." Collins gazed with implacable sternness at his client. "He was found hanging by the neck in the stable behind this hotel just before dawn this morning." 


	34. Plotting Strategy

Elliott Marston folded his napkin carefully and set it down beside his plate. Then he lifted his teacup and tilted it, watching the liquid swirl.  
  
"You know, Melvin," The tea dipped perilously close to the edge of the cup. "It sounds like you're accusing me of murder."  
  
"For God's sake, Elliott! This is nothing to joke about." Melvin Collins pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. He began to pace the floor. "The police say you were the last person this Crabbs saw."  
  
"The police are wrong. The last person he saw was his killer." Marston kept his eyes on the cup. Small wavelets of tea crested and ebbed against the smooth porcelain. "How hard do you think they're looking?"  
  
"They're investigating all the possibilities but it's obvious they want to know about your connection." Collins paused at the window and stared down into the street.  
  
"Who told them that Crabbs and I had met?" Marston sipped his tea and frowned. It was getting cold. He reached for the teapot.  
  
"The clerk in the lobby. He said Crabbs sent you a note and you met him in the coatroom - privately. He also said that Crabbs chased you through the lobby." Collins returned to the table and sat down again. "You can appreciate that the hotel people aren't happy about the notoriety."  
  
"No doubt." Marston blew gently on the steaming cup. "What do you advise me to do?"  
  
"Dammit, Elliott! How can I advise you when I don't know what's going on?" The cutlery and china rattled at the lawyer gripped the table. "At the very least I have to know why people keep dying after being in your company."  
  
"If you're worried personally, you can leave now."  
  
"I'm not going to dignify that comment with a response." Collins hesitated. "Well? Are you going to tell me?"  
  
"I suppose so. It's rather a long story. Have some tea." Marston poured out a cup and passed it across the table. It was refilled twice before he finished. He described his meeting with his wife's father and Belle's visit to the hotel. The ordinary sounds of the street came through the open window, contrasting with the story being told.  
  
"So it was old Sam Flanagan that Watters was after?" Collins frowned thoughtfully. "I can't think why Watters would hire someone to do any dirty work for him. He took pride on doing it himself."  
  
"According to Crabbs, Watters was simply the front man for whoever wanted to get Flanagan." Marston sat back in his chair, stretching out his legs and crossing them at the ankles. "I've wasted enough time over the last week. My brother-in-law is almost abducted, I am arrested, our rooms are searched and ransacked and now a man I spoke with has been murdered."  
  
"What are you going to do?" The lawyer eyed him nervously.  
  
"We -" Marston ignored the other's groan. "We are going to do a little investigating ourselves." He walked to the wardrobe and pulled open the door. "How soon will the police get here?"  
  
"Not long, I would imagine. They're probably waiting for official permission to come after you."  
  
"It pays to be a wealthy man. We're going to need money again so we'll go to the bank first. Then we can come back here and face them." Marston shrugged into his coat and adjusted his collar.  
  
"Elliott, it took a big lump of cash to get you out of jail last time. I had to go to the army to make it happen." Collins frowned. "Frankly, it makes me nervous."  
  
"Have you found out yet who Buttershaw's client was?" Marston reached into the wardrobe again and pulled out his holster.  
  
"No and that's strange." Collins watched as the guns were primed and checked. "Buttershaw doesn't need to set foot inside the police station. He's a corporate lawyer."  
  
"Well, maybe he felt like slumming. Anyway, get a list of his clients for me. Find out who he owes favors to." Marston pulled the gun belt around his waist and adjusted the fit. "And let's find out a little more about the late, unlamented Mr. Watters."  
  
A loud rap at the door interrupted them. The two men looked at each other. Collins raised his brows in enquiry. Marston nodded and backed away to the window.  
  
The lawyer walked to the door and pulled it open just enough to see who was outside. "Yes?"  
  
"Excuse me, sir, but the police are downstairs. They want to see Mr. Marston." It was the clerk, trying to peer into the room. Collins blocked his view adroitly.  
  
"Thank you. I'll let him know." He eased the door shut and turned. "Elliott!"  
  
Marston paused on the windowsill, one foot on the floor, the other hanging outside. "Don't worry, Melvin. I have it on excellent authority that it's a good way to avoid meeting people you don't want to see. Tell Sam to meet me at Belle's." He grinned, doffed his hat and disappeared from view. 


	35. Trapped!

Carts and wagons manouevred ponderously past and round each other as they made their deliveries to the hotel. Horses stamped and blew in the dust- clogged road as they impatiently lingered at the curb; drivers shouted imprecations at each other in between crooning endearments to their animals. Most pedestrians kept to the far side of the street to avoid the crush.  
  
Elliott Marston waited in the alley, scanning the congested street for signs of uniformed policemen and finding none. Presumably they were all in the hotel lobby. He looked up at the window he had just climbed out of. A grinning Melvin Collins leaned out and waved. Marston smiled back, then headed for the street.  
  
He walked quickly, careful to keep the wagons between him and the hotel entrance. Carters looked at him with idle curiousity as he passed. The large windows of the bar and dining room flashed past on his left. He could see the entrance to the hotel stableyard ahead; three policemen stood watching the rear doors of the hotel. His mouth tightened grimly. It had been a good idea to avoid the back.  
  
The traffic thinned out as he left the hotel behind. Now it was ladies doing their morning shopping that crowded his path. Marston pulled his hat low over his eyes and danced through them, mindful not to attract too much attention. He hazarded glances to his right and left. It appeared to be working; he might have been invisible as far as his fellow pedestrians were concerned.  
  
"Mister Marston!"  
  
Damn. He slowed his pace and looked cautiously in front of him. It was the seamstress who had prepared Sam's wedding outfit.  
  
"How was the wedding, Mister Marston? I do hope everything went well. You certainly had beautiful weather for it, don't you think?" She beamed at him from the doorway of her shop. Some of the other shoppers turned to look at them.  
  
Marston stepped quickly to her side and leaned against the doorframe. "Well, well, how good to see you again! How have you been keeping?"  
  
The woman blinked in surprise at the warmth of his greeting. "Why.why, just fine, thank you. And how is Mrs. Marston?"  
  
He took two steps forward, forcing her to back up into her shop. "She's just fine. That was a truly beautiful dress you created for her."  
  
The seamstress' smile broadened. "Oh my yes. She looked just wonderful. But a happy bride is a beautiful bride, I always say."  
  
"And I'm sure you're right." Marston sidled around her and closed the door with a quick slam. "In fact, I was wondering just this morning if you had any other, er, things that she could wear during the day for, uh, shopping or going out."  
  
The seamstress was positively radiant now. "I most surely do. We just got some lovely peach fabric just last month and I wasn't sure what to do with it. You see, none of my regulars could wear it but it would look lovely on Mrs. Marston. Now where did I put it?" She skittered through the hanging curtains at the back of the shop and disappeared from view. Her voice carried on loud and clear. "Oh my yes. It's just perfect for a honey blonde like your wife. Abigail! Abigail where did we put the peach? You remember?" Her footsteps rapped across the floor into the back depths of the building.  
  
Marston slid to the window and peered through the lace curtains. Two policemen were walking down the street, from the direction of the hotel. At least one of them he recognized from his post guarding the alley to the hotel stables. He stepped back quickly.  
  
By now the police would know he wasn't in the hotel. They would look for him that much harder because he'd managed to give them the slip. And they would search the most obvious places for him first.  
  
Which made it imperative that he get to the office of Jasper Connaught at the First Commercial Bank of Western Australia as fast as humanly possible.  
  
The seamstress' voice was still audible but her words were indistinct. Three strides took him to the hanging curtains she'd disappeared through earlier. He found himself in the sewing area: tapes and reels of colored threads were piled on a long counter against the wall, a full-length mirror was propped in a corner and bolts of fabric in dozens of hues were piled to the ceiling. Two windows with panes of cracked glass looked out over a small garden surrounded by a high fence with a gate. He focused on the gate.  
  
No door to the garden was apparent in the sewing room. He glided across the floorboards as gently as he could to a curved archway and peered around. It was a kitchen even smaller than the garden and at the far end, the back door.  
  
Marston discarded his concern about being overheard. To bound across the room, wrench open the door and cross the garden was with him the work of an instant. There he was checked: the latch was solidly fastened with rusted wire. Obviously the seamstress hadn't used the back lane for some time. There was no hope for it. He would have to climb. He had just attained the top of the fence when the seamstress appeared in the kitchen.  
  
"Mr. Marston! What are you doing? I found the fabric." She stared in perplexity at him.  
  
"That's just fine! You make up a nice suit for Mrs. Marston and we'll be around to collect it.oh.let's say next week." He assumed the confident manner of a businessman who wasn't sitting uncomfortably on a narrow board fence. "I'm sure whatever you do will be just fine." He waved jovially and dropped to the other side. Her spluttering remonstrances followed him over the fence.  
  
He landed on his feet with a soft thud. A swift glance around his person showed no appreciable damage to his wardrobe. He grimaced; showing up at his bank in torn clothing would not be helpful to his interests.  
  
In fact, he thought as he began walking again, he'd better start thinking about what would be helpful to his interests.  
  
While he could still do so outside of jail. 


	36. Caught!

"It's a good thing you had another bag. This one is full." Elliott Marston stopped packing currency for a moment and hefted the carpetbag. The weight was almost too much for the handles. He transferred a portion of the contents to the other bag.  
  
Jasper Connaught leaned back in his leather chair and watched his client's actions. "You realize, of course, this is highly irregular."  
  
"Yes, I know. But it's necessary, I'm afraid." Marston closed the second bag and placed it on the floor beside the first. "I expect the police will be here very soon. There aren't many places I visit regularly when I'm in town but this is one of them."  
  
The banker's mouth twisted into a wry smile. "We at the First Commercial take pride in the quality of our customers."  
  
Marston crossed to the window and looked out at the street. The two uniformed constables he'd seen from the seamstress' shop loitered on the sidewalk directly opposite the bank, watching the doors. Probably waiting to arrest him when he emerged. They wouldn't dare anger the authorities by coming into the bank to do it. He was safe as long as he was in Connaught's office.  
  
He turned back to his unwilling host. "Jasper, loath as I am to dispense with your hospitality, I'm afraid the time has come for us to part. If you'll take me to a safe back door into the alley, I'll be on my way."  
  
The First Commercial Bank occupied most of an entire block in the town. The back alley was used only by special arrangement with the authorities to deliver and receive shipments of specie and currency. A tall brick wall sealed off one end of the alley and a large iron gate stood at the other to keep regular traffic out.  
  
At the door of the office, Marston paused and adjusted his grip on his luggage. "For your sake, Jasper, don't let on I was in here. It would probably bring you nothing but trouble."  
  
Connaught stood up. "Let me take you to the door. Those back stairs can be tricky." He appeared to ignore his client's comment. Marston felt slightly guilty as he followed the older man.  
  
The banker marched down the hall past the other executive offices. At the very edge of the lobby he veered left and descended a flight of stairs that Marston knew from experience led to the great vaults under the main floor. The light was dim and threw exaggerated shadows along the wall as the two men proceeded.  
  
They passed the vaults and kept moving. Marston was totally reliant on his host now. The hall was practically a tunnel at this point and the light even less reliable. He could not see much further ahead than Connaught's back. The sudden appearance of a steel door caught him by surprise.  
  
"Here we are." The banker pulled on the bolt and it swung back with a tinny screech. The door swung open and daylight flooded through. "Best of luck Elliott. Now and always."  
  
"Thank you, Jasper. You're a true friend." Marston took a firmer grip on his bags and stepped over the threshold, blinking in the glare. The first things he saw as his eyes became accustomed to the light were the two policemen, waiting with folded arms. He looked around frantically. This was not the back alley; it was the street.  
  
Marston whirled and stared at Connaught, still standing in the door.  
  
"I'm very sorry, Elliott. I didn't want to do it. But I had no choice." The banker nodded in sorrowful farewell and stepped back into the gloom. The door slammed shut and the sound of the bolt being shot echoed in the silence. 


	37. Rescued!

For a long moment Elliott Marston remained frozen to the spot, staring at the iron door. His mind raced with ideas but no plan emerged from the jumble. He forced himself to remain calm. Then he slowly turned to face the constables.  
  
Both were young, barely into their twenties, and they looked at him with mingled embarrassment and sympathy. The taller one coughed apologetically. "I'm afraid you'll have to come with us. The chief has a few questions for you."  
  
Marston inhaled deeply, then let out his breath. Time. He needed time to come up with a plan. There was nothing to be gained from resistance but if he could stall long enough something might suggest itself.  
  
"Very well. But first I must drop these bags off at my hotel." It came out well; he was pleased with the effort.  
  
The two constables exchanged looks. "Well, you see, sir.." The shorter one hesitated. "That's not possible. We have orders to take you straight back to the chief." He shifted uncomfortably. "If you don't mind, sir."  
  
Marston eyed them carefully. Their deference was in his favor; they responded automatically to the authority in his tone. "No, I don't mind. However I must insist that you let me return these items to the bank. They are too valuable to be jostled about at the chief constable's office."  
  
The men looked at each other again. The taller one spoke. "Er, very well, sir. But we must come in with you."  
  
"Of course." Marston nodded. "Let's go."  
  
The trio walked along the sidewalk to the main entrance. Marston walked as slowly as he dared, shifting the bags in his grip and once putting them down for a rest before climbing the steps. The police fidgeted while he clasped and unclasped his hands, ostensibly trying to restore the feeling to his fingers. He scanned the street to his left and right but could see nothing or no one who could help him. Few passersby were visible in the middle of the morning and the road was bare of anything save hackneys and horses. As he watched a long wagon pulled by two great draft horses came slowly around the corner. He sighed and picked up his baggage again.  
  
All too soon they were passing through the great wooden doors into the cool marble hall of the bank. Customers turned their heads to watch as the three men passed through their midst to the executive offices. Marston headed down the corridor behind the wooden barriers and the two constables followed, halting immediately outside the executive doors.  
  
Jasper Connaught looked up as he entered. "Elliott, what are you doing here?"  
  
"I've come to return my money to the vault. You can be trusted to arrange that, I believe?" Marston did not try to keep the bitterness from his voice.  
  
The banker flinched. "To be sure. Just leave them here. It will be arranged immediately."  
  
Marston sat down. "You'll excuse me, but I would prefer to wait for a receipt."  
  
Connaught looked affronted and opened his mouth to respond but whatever he was about to say was drowned out by the sound of screams from the hall beyond. The two men stared at each other, then leaped to their feet at the sound of gunfire. The screams stopped immediately and a harsh voice could be heard shouting orders in the sudden quiet.  
  
The banker's face went white and he began to tremble. With panicked eyes he ran to the door, then returned and cast panicked eyes around his office. His hands shook and he moaned wordlessly as he spun around in frantic circles. Finally he ran across the room to the closet and pulled open the door. His coat flapped as he pawed his way into its depths with both hands and the door slammed shut behind him.  
  
Marston stared in disbelief at the closet. The sound of running feet tugged his attention to the corridor. A slight figure in a shabby coat with a hat pulled low and a scarf covering his lower face appeared in the doorway. Marston reached for his holster but halted when the newcomer held up two guns. He backed up as the other entered the room.  
  
With a backward kick to slam the door, the gunman put his guns on a chair and began to peel off his outer clothes. The hat and scarf went flying across the desk and disappeared from view, followed by the coat. Two shapely hands tugged the lower half of a muslin dress from out of the rough denim jeans and adjusted its length to the proper fit. Marston's jaw dropped as his wife emerged in front of him.  
  
"We don't have much time." Sam whispered fiercely. "Did you get your money?"  
  
He barely managed to nod. Through the door, they could hear a confused buzzing of loud voices from the hall beyond.  
  
"Good. Then we'll be on our way." She looked around the room then seized a large bookend from the banker's desk. With hardly a pause for breath she heaved it through the window smashing the glass into thousands of shards. Then she ran to the door, pulled it open and screamed. "Oh my God! Quick! The robber went right through the window! Hurry!"  
  
There was a stampede of footsteps down the corridor and the two constables, guns at the ready, burst into the room. The fronts of their tunics were covered in dust and they looked considerably more rumpled than before. Sam screamed louder and pointed at the window. They rushed to poke their heads through the gaping glass then hoisted themselves to the sill and out to the street. The sound of their running feet faded as they rounded the corner of the building.  
  
Sam gave her dress a final tug. "All right, let's go." She recovered her guns and checked the barrel of one as Marston picked up his bags.  
  
They walked through the now empty hall and their steps echoed against the marble walls. The doors stood open and Marston could see a hackney pulled up to the bottom of the steps. Melvin Collins grinned and waved through the side window.  
  
They were three blocks away before Marston found his voice. "How did you. What did you.?"  
  
"When the police came upstairs to see where you were, I heard the captain in charge give instructions to his men that they were to bring you in for serious questioning. I didn't like the sound of that. So I got into my work clothes -" She lifted her skirt and flashed her denims at him. "And followed them. I was across the street when they walked you back inside. So I followed you in and pretended to hold up the bank. I shot out some glass lamps and told everyone to get on the floor."  
  
"Are you crazy!? You could have been killed!" Marston's voice was hoarse with rage and fear. "What if those constables had shot at you!?"  
  
"Well, I want to talk to you about that. After this is over, I want you to write a nasty letter to the chief constable about those men. It's a disgrace that I wasn't shot at."  
  
"What are you talking about?"  
  
Sam sat back in her seat and quirked an eyebrow sardonically. "Taxpayers aren't getting their money's worth from those two. They were the first ones on the floor." 


	38. A Chilling Disclosure

Belle's Palace lay sleeping in the heat of the afternoon sun. The only movement came from the breezes blowing through the windows and ruffling the curtains. All was peaceful and quiet. Even the birds in the hedges seemed drowsy.  
  
Sam Marston had slipped right into the routine of the household but Elliott Marston found the stillness a trifle confining. Tiptoeing up the stairs and along the hall to get to their room was one thing, but conducting business in a whisper was just a bit much, in his opinion.  
  
"What do you think I'm runnin' here? A day school for wayward orphans?" Belle retorted when he complained. "These gals work hard and they need their sleep. So you just hush up, Mr. Big Important Sheep Rancher."  
  
"It's not that I don't appreciate the reasons." Marston commented as he followed his wife to the kitchen and the back door. "It's just that it's so hard to remember all the time."  
  
Sam pulled on her gloves and smiled. "I know."  
  
"And I don't want you taking any risks out there. If you think you might be followed, then you stay at the hotel." He crossed his arms and frowned. "I'm going to miss you until you get back."  
  
The disgruntled look on his face was so perilously close to a pout that she almost laughed. "I will be careful." She reached up and pulled his head down for a kiss. "Now you just stay indoors and out of trouble while I'm gone, sir."  
  
He pulled open the door and checked the back alley. The hackney cab was waiting. Sam climbed in and pulled the shades down in both windows so no one could see. The driver clucked to his horse and the cab lurched forward. Marston watched it turn into the street and disappear from view.  
  
With a deep sigh, he shut the door. Being apart for even a few hours was fretful but he knew that it was vital that the boys be sent back to the ranch without delay. Ted and Barney would take care of them on the way and make sure they didn't come to any harm. He wondered briefly who would protect the ranch from the boys.  
  
Moving as quietly as he could, he slipped up the back stairs and along the hall to his room. Belle had tried to talk him into staying in the basement storage area but he had rejected that idea immediately. He preferred a front room with a window so he could watch who came to the house.  
  
He rounded the corner and almost ran into Belle. "There you are! Been looking for you." She crooked her finger at him. "You wanted to talk to Ches Watters' gal? Well, she's awake now."  
  
Lilly was waiting for him in the small back parlor. She lounged on a sofa in a pink velvet dressing gown that had seen better days and had been designed for a woman built on less robust lines. A stale aroma of attar of roses hung in the air. The sound of the door closing behind Belle caused her to wince and look accusingly at him as he sat down.  
  
Marston eyed her for a moment. Awake wasn't the word he would have used. Perhaps conscious would have been more accurate. Although just barely.  
  
"You the fella wants to know about Ches Watters?" She drank her tea with little sips, blinking at the afternoon sun coming though the curtains.  
  
"Yes. I understand you were with him the night before he died." Marston leaned forward in his chair. "What did you talk about?"  
  
She laughed, a surprisingly girlish sound. "Weren't talkin' he had on his mind. If you gets my drift." She winked at him.  
  
"Uh, yes, I realize that. But you told Belle what Watters said when he found out Sam Flanagan had left." Marston waited, then prodded her again. "Apparently he was upset."  
  
"Yeah, he was. Got real mad when Belle told him that he was probably bein' protected by guards." She frowned in concentration. "Said he was gonna get that boy - what's his name now? The oldest one - Liam, that's it. Said that Liam would know where the old man was."  
  
Marston frowned. "Did he say anything about associates or partners who were looking for Flanagan too?"  
  
"Mister, I told you what I know. I don't stick my nose in a man's business. Only thing was I liked those boys and that Liam was cute." She smiled and gave Marston a sidelong glance under half-closed lids. "Not as good-lookin' as you, though." She set the teacup down on the side table, then stood up and gathered her dressing gown more tightly around her figure. Then she smiled again and launched herself at him.  
  
Marston had a confused impression of a pink whirlwind a bare second before she landed in his lap. The force of her assault knocked him back into the depths of the chair. She was completely awake now. He spluttered for air as her arms circled his neck and squeezed hard.  
  
"I'm.not.interested!" He tried to unclench her hands. "Let.go!"  
  
"Now, honey, don't be that way. We got plenty of time before I gotta go to work." A wet kiss missed its target and landed on his ear. "So let's go upstairs and have fun. And for you I'll even take my clothes off." She took careful aim and tried to kiss him again.  
  
His groping hands managed to catch hold of the chair arms. With a heave, he pulled himself forward until his feet gained a purchase on the floor. Lilly clung with all her strength the entire time. With a grunt he reached up and succeeded in prying her grip loose. She kicked her legs in the air as she flailed around, grasping at him wildly. He stood up and she landed on the floor with a loud thud.  
  
"Now that's not friendly!" She huffed up at him with a hurt look. "Wouldn't have cost you nothing. It's free anytime before supper. House rules."  
  
He sucked in a lungful of air and let it out again. "Thank you. But all I want is information about Ches Watters."  
  
"I told you all I know." She got to her feet, rejecting with scorn his offer of assistance. "Now I gotta go. I'm hungry." Pulling her disordered dressing gown around her, she made for the door.  
  
"I know Watters wanted Flanagan to kill a man." He was talking to her back. "If you remember anything else -"  
  
"Well I won't! Ches was a good customer. Never asked for credit." Lilly paused on the threshold and looked back with a frown. "He was some mad that night. Cursin' and carryin' on real bad. I felt sorry for the old man. And even sorrier for the man Ches wanted dead." She padded across the hall in her bare feet and began to climb the stairs.  
  
Marston followed her to the foot of the great staircase. "If you could remember the name of that man, it would be very helpful."  
  
"Actually, come to think of it, I do." Lilly's voice floated down from the landing. "Ches wanted the old man to kill some guy named Elliott Marston." 


	39. More Strategizing

"She kissed you?" Sam Marston paused with her glass in mid-air as she gazed at her husband in surprise. Dinner was almost over. Candlelight gilded the wine and reflected off the silverware on the battered table in their bedroom.  
  
She'd completed a very active day. Ted and Barney accepted her new status as their boss's wife with little difficulty. She had been amused when, after a moment of surprise, they had pulled off their hats. It was a respectful gesture that had not been accorded to their fellow employee Sam Flanagan.  
  
Checking out of the Royal was easier than she'd anticipated. Although too conscious of their status as the premier hotel in town to actually eject a customer as well-heeled as her husband, it was obvious that their departure was a relief to the staff. The wagons back to the ranch had been loaded in record time.  
  
The biggest problem she'd had to face had been the boys. Liam asked only one question: "Does Elliott want us to go to his ranch?" Upon hearing an affirmative answer, he'd nodded and set out to pack his belongings for the trip. Conn's major concern was whether he'd have his blanked and his tin soldiers. Niall was another matter.  
  
To her surprise, Niall listened quietly, his large gray eyes unblinking and solemn. He'd asked no questions and made no comments. Sam didn't know what to make of his response. She couldn't forget the sight of his forlorn figure on the last wagon, staring back at her in mute appeal, as it lumbered down the street.  
  
"Just once." Elliott Marston took a bite of his chicken and chewed meditatively. "Now why would Ches Watters want me dead?"  
  
"Where did she kiss you?" She sipped her wine, dragging her mind back to immediate issues.  
  
"Hm? Oh, in the back parlor." He mopped up some gravy with a crust of bread. "I've been racking my brains but it's no good. I've never even heard of the man. And he certainly didn't know me that day at Fletcher's Stables."  
  
"That's not what I meant. On the lips?" With a frown, Sam plunked her glass on the table and picked up her fork. "Or where?"  
  
"What are you talking about?" Marston looked up, surprised at her tone. "She kissed my ear. That's all she had time for."  
  
"Well, I think I'm going to have a word with Miss Lilly before bedtime." She stabbed her fork into a potato and mutilated it into bite-size pieces with her knife.  
  
"I tell you that a man I never heard of tried to hire your father to kill me and you're worried about whether some woman kissed me?" He stared at her incredulously. It seemed a strange priority under the circumstances.  
  
"Let's deal with one subject at a time." The potato required quite a bit of aggressive chewing. "Did you like it?"  
  
"No, I didn't. I don't care for attar of roses." He pushed his plate away, watching her warily. She poked at her food, avoiding his gaze.  
  
"I'll show you how it happened if you like." He stood up and held out his hand. She accepted it with a sidelong look, suspicious of his bland tone. "We don't have an overstuffed chair up here so we'll have to use the bed."  
  
He sat down and bounced into the center of the mattress. "She was sitting on my lap like this. That's right." He positioned her properly. "Now put your arms around my neck."  
  
"Yes, I can see how she did it." Lilly's methods were not sophisticated, Sam decided. She wrapped her arms around his neck and nuzzled his ear. "Now tell me what else she said about Watters."  
  
"That was all. Either she's not a great listener or he wasn't a big talker." Marston frowned, his brow furrowed in concentration. "What did Watters have against me?"  
  
"Maybe Watters was just the middle-man." Sam kissed her way along his jaw to his chin. "Someone who does have a grudge against you could have got him to hire Dad."  
  
"Maybe." He tilted his head back to make things easier for her. "But that doesn't answer the main question. Who in this town wants me dead? And why?"  
  
"It would have to be someone pretty big to explain why a rich business lawyer like Robert Buttershaw would be involved." Sam began an intimate assault on his other ear. "He wasn't interested in Ches Watters. He was protecting someone else."  
  
"Brilliant as well as beautiful!" Marston hugged her waist as he considered the possibilities. "Now let me think. The only people in town that I deal with regularly are my banker, my lawyer and my suppliers."  
  
"It's not likely to be someone in that group. You're a source of revenue for them." Sam ran her fingers through his hair. It seemed to aid in her thinking, so she did it again. "And why would they try to kill you now instead of last year or next year? It doesn't make sense."  
  
"Very well. Then it's someone else." Marston leaned back against the pillows and furrowed his brow in concentration. "I don't mix socially with very many people when I'm here."  
  
"You must have some friends in town." She sat up and kissed his nose.  
  
"There's Gil Johnson, the mayor. But I can't see him dealing with the likes of Watters." A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "You know, you're much better at this than Lilly."  
  
"Thank you, kind sir. I do aim to please." Lilly's pose was not designed for long-term activity. Sam twisted around so that she was straddling his lap with her knees on the bed. She resumed her admiration of his ear.  
  
"You're right. We've got to find out who Buttershaw's clients and friends are. I'll talk to Collins in the morning."  
  
"You'll do no such thing." Sam shrugged off his grip and pushed him down into the softness of the bed. "I'll talk to Melvin in the morning. You'll stay here where it's safe." She leaned over him in a mock-threatening manner.  
  
"Very well." He grinned up at her. "I'll stay here where all I have to worry about is fighting off half-naked women."  
  
"Nice try, Mr. Marston." She straightened up, hands on her hips. "But by tomorrow morning you won't be much use to them." 


	40. Researching Mr Buttershaw

"But how does he make his money if he has so few clients?" Sam Marston frowned over the piece of paper list in her hand.  
  
"Buttershaw doesn't bill for services rendered like most of us do. He receives a very lucrative monthly retainer from most of them regardless of whether he does anything or not. It ensures that he's available when needed and also that he doesn't work for a client's business competitors." Melvin Collins leaned back in his chair and stared wistfully at the list. "It's every lawyer's dream."  
  
Sam smiled. "Wouldn't you rather make an honest living, knowing that you charge a fair fee for everything you do?"  
  
Collins looked at her in surprise. "No."  
  
Sam gave up and went off into peals of laughter. She liked her husband's lawyer and his droll sense of humor. After they solved this matter of who was trying to kill Elliott, she would have to see about finding the right wife for him. The man was too attractive to be left a bachelor for long. She reverted back to her reason for being there.  
  
"Well, I don't see that these names tell us very much." She ran her finger down the list. "Thomas Higgins is a big shipping name, I know that. But I don't recognize James Buchanan or Silas Latham." She looked up, her brow furrowed.  
  
"Buchanan made his money in sheep ranching but he sold out a couple of years ago and went back to Scotland. Buttershaw has been winding up his affairs for him." The lawyer leaned forward to peruse the names for himself. "Latham's a different matter. He's building railroads all over the state. He needs political friends. I wouldn't be surprised if Buttershaw wasn't a silent partner in most of his dealings."  
  
"So we'll put a little tick mark beside Mr. Latham." Sam marked the paper accordingly. "I see that the Army also contributes to Mr. Buttershaw's income. How much money could that bring in?"  
  
"Lots." Collins was emphatic. "Getting the Army as a client is like having permission to take a wheelbarrow to the Exchequer and load it up with gold every week."  
  
"How?" Sam stared. "What would he do for them?"  
  
"He'd negotiate with merchants to get the best deal he could. A really unscrupulous lawyer could get rich just on the bribes offered by those who wanted to become Army suppliers." Collins began to count off on his fingers. "He would also deal with local government authorities when the Army needed anything from them; they would prefer to use the services of a local lawyer who knew Australia. Another opportunity would come from assisting army officers who needed legal advice personally and wanted someone they could trust."  
  
"Really? Then we'll definitely need to consider the army." She made a note on the paper.  
  
"That could be a little difficult." Collins was amused. "It's pretty big."  
  
"Yes, but we can narrow things down." Sam leaned back in her chair and mimicked his earlier counting motions. "It would have to be a senior enough officer to motivate Buttershaw into visiting the chief constable's office. Also a senior officer would have more at stake than a petty officer or enlisted man."  
  
"But that still leaves a large group of men." The lawyer was drawn in by her logic.  
  
"There might be quite a few officers who would know Robert Buttershaw. That I'll grant you." She tapped the paper in front of her. "But how many of those officers would also know Jasper Connaught and be able to influence him?"  
  
Collins stared at her, his lips pursed in a silent whistle.  
  
Sam nodded emphatically. "The only bank on this list is the Prime Mercantile, not the First Commercial. Buttershaw wouldn't have much pull with Connaught." She tossed the paper on the table between them. "So we have to ask ourselves: who does?" 


	41. Another Man to Man Conversation

Elliott Marston lay back in the big bed and stretched luxuriously. The morning sun shone through the faded curtains at the window and warmed the room. Drivers could be heard outside, shouting and cursing as they guided their wagons along the street. It was a typical town morning. Easy to forget that someone wanted him dead.  
  
The thought was enough to make him sit up and throw back the blankets. He padded across the worn carpet to the bureau and poured cold water into the basin. His wife was out there meeting with his lawyer while he lay in bed. Time to get moving. He performed his morning ablutions with dispatch and dressed with more haste than usual.  
  
Sam's proscription of the night before - urged in such an enthusiastic and agreeable manner - that he remain hidden in the house chafed his patience. Enforced idleness did not sit well with him. He wanted to take part in the chase, not wait for his wife to come back with information. She wanted to protect him. He snorted. Who would protect her?  
  
Sitting at the small kitchen table, he considered his options while eating breakfast. He'd promised not to leave the house; he wouldn't break his word. It wasn't likely that Lilly had any more knowledge to impart, assuming that Sam hadn't terrified her into actually moving out of the house.  
  
Marston chewed his eggs thoughtfully. It might be helpful to know if Watters had done any socializing when he visited the Palace. Did he drink with the other customers in the front parlor? Was he known to be a friend of anyone in particular? Did he usually arrive or leave with anyone? Lilly probably wouldn't know. Belle probably wouldn't talk if she did. But there might be someone in the house who had paid attention.  
  
He considered. While Belle owned the establishment outright, she was assisted in her management responsibilities by others. There was Len, a former soldier who combined the duties of doorman and security guard; no one entered during business hours without his knowledge. It might be worthwhile to have a chat with Len. His meal completed, Marston picked up his tea and went in search of his quarry.  
  
Len was sitting in the front parlor, smoking a pipe and reading an old newspaper. His military bearing was still apparent, despite the stubble on his chin. Tobacco and ash adorned his shirtfront. He didn't look up when Marston entered the room.  
  
"Mind if I join you?" He tried for a jovial tone, somewhere between friendly and fulsome but falling well short of presumptuous.  
  
"Suit yourself. Plenty of room." The older man was intent on his newspaper.  
  
"Anything interesting?" Marston sipped his tea.  
  
Len grunted without enthusiasm. "The usual."  
  
"You must find it pretty unexciting working here after being a soldier." It seemed a safe bet. In Marston's experience few soldiers would turn down the chance to expound old battle stories.  
  
"Yep." The other's gaze never wavered from his reading.  
  
Silence fell. Marston wracked his brain for another comment. He lifted the cup to his lips to buy time.  
  
Len turned a page. "I kinda wondered when you'd get to me." A puff of smoke from his pipe floated to the ceiling.  
  
Marston choked on his tea. "I beg your pardon?"  
  
"I said I wondered when you'd get around to asking me about Ches Watters." The old man finally looked at him directly for the first time.  
  
"Um, yes, well." Marston cleared his throat and tried again. "I have to explain about -"  
  
"Lilly's a good girl. Not very bright but in her line of work it's not like she's gonna get called on to do surgery, ya know?" Len put the newspaper on the floor and took his pipe out of his mouth. He tapped it against the side of the potted plant beside his chair. "She don't notice much."  
  
"Well, as you say, she really doesn't need to." It was an inane comment; Marston winced inwardly even as he said it. "What, exactly, might she have noticed?"  
  
The doorman pulled a jackknife out of his pocket and scoured the inside of the pipe bowl. "Oh, this and that. Sometimes Ches wasn't any too discreet, ya know? Liked to bigshot around about the people he did stuff for." He put the stem to his lips and blew through it, creating a faint whistling sound. Satisfied, he began to refill his pipe from the tobacco pouch on the chair arm.  
  
"Like who?" Marston sipped his tea.  
  
"Like this guy who owned the feed store down by the harbor. Had a bunch of customers that weren't payin' their bills." Len tamped the tobacco down firmly with his thumb. "Hired Ches to sort of persuade 'em to ante up. That was his line of work. Applied muscle."  
  
"Interesting." Marston lied politely. "Did he have any close friends that you know of? Men who came here with him?"  
  
"Not really. Usually came alone, visited with Lilly or maybe Alice, then left." He scraped a match against the side of his boot and lit his pipe, puffing until the flame caught. "Couple of times, he showed up with some Army guys. Went into the back parlor for talkin'. Ches was pretty flush with cash for a while after those meetings."  
  
Marston nodded slowly. "I see. Do you know who -"  
  
A sudden scream cut off his sentence. Both men leaped to their feet. The sound of running footsteps came from the hall as Marston pulled open the door.  
  
"My lace! You tore my lace! You little brat!!" The voice was shrill with rage.  
  
"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to do it!" It was a boy's voice, shaky and frightened. As the two men watched from the threshold of the parlor, the speaker ran past and stopped at the front door. His small body shook with panic as he stared wildly around the foyer. The sound of his breathing was harsh in the silence.  
  
Marston closed his eyes and groaned. He counted to ten, then opened them again. No, it hadn't been an illusion. Niall Flanagan, supposedly on his way to Marston Ranch, was indeed in the house. 


	42. An Unexpected Return

"I can help! I can do lots of things! Give me a chance! Please?"  
  
"For the last time - no!"  
  
"But Elliott! The wagons are gone. You'd have to take me to the ranch yourself. And you said it's dangerous to do it on horseback."  
  
"He's right, darling. Whether we like it or not, he's got to stay."  
  
Elliott Marston slammed his hands down on the table and curled them into fists as he leaned forward. It was an intimidating pose, one perfected over years of business negotiations to strike fear into his audience. It certainly had his current audience, at the very least, nervous. Sam eyed him warily and slid her arm around her brother's shoulders. Niall blinked rapidly and sat up straighter, his hands clasped tightly in front of him.  
  
However, a pose by itself doesn't go very far; it really needs a pithy comment to accompany it. And Marston was ruefully aware that he didn't have one.  
  
He flexed his fingers and relaxed his posture. Then he dropped his chin on his hand. "Niall, what on earth possessed you to leave the wagons and come back?" He was painfully aware that the question was an acknowledgement of defeat.  
  
Niall grinned. "You needed me here. I had to come back." He reached into his shirt and pulled out a paper. "And I thought you should see this letter. It looks important."  
  
"What is it?" Marston reached across the table. "It looks like Cal's handwriting." He tore open the envelope.  
  
"Barney was taking the mail back to the ranch but I thought you should see it." Niall nodded importantly.  
  
Marston frowned as he unfolded the paper. "Have you given any thought to what happened when Barney and Ted found out you were gone?"  
  
Niall grinned. "I left them a note. They'll understand."  
  
"Mmm." Marston scanned the letter.  
  
"Who's Cal?" Sam asked.  
  
"He's the son of my foster parents. The people who took me in after my parents were killed." He didn't look up.  
  
"So he's your foster brother?"  
  
"No!" Marston glanced up quickly, then looked down again. "No, he's not."  
  
Sam raised her brows but said nothing. Nothing broke the silence until the crackling of paper as Marston folded the letter and tucked it into his vest. For a long moment he stared down at his hands lying on the tablecloth. Sam and Niall said nothing, unwilling to interrupt his thoughts.  
  
After what seemed an interminable time, he took a deep breath, then sighed. When he finally turned to them, the expression on his face was distant and forbidding.  
  
"Niall, I have to talk to Sam in private. Why don't you go downstairs and get something to eat?"  
  
"I'm not hungry. I'd rather stay - OUCH!" Niall glared at his sister as he rubbed his arm.  
  
"Yes, you are." Sam gave him a gentle push toward the door. "Go downstairs. Right now." She ignored his sullen look as he marched out. Her eyes remained on her husband.  
  
Marston said nothing for a long moment. How could he begin to explain? He was vividly aware of the letter secured in his vest and what it meant to their family life together. Their family; wonderful words to roll over the tongue and hear out loud. How much longer would he have the right to say them?  
  
"Elliott? Is everything all right?" Sam was looking at him with concern.  
  
He pulled himself together. "Not really. We need to have a talk. One we should have had some months ago." The right words did not come easily.  
  
"Heavens, sounds very serious." Gentle mockery suffused her voice.  
  
"It is. But I don't really know where to start." He rose to his feet and walked to the window. Perhaps if he didn't have to look at her. "Maybe I should begin by asking you a question."  
  
"Go ahead." She was concentrating on his every word.  
  
He turned from the window and walked to the table. Hands on hips, he looked down at her. "If I asked you to, how many people would you be willing to kill for me?" 


	43. Elliott Gets Ugly

"Is that a joke?" Sam Marston stared at her husband.  
  
"No. It's not." Elliott Marston frowned. Hands on hips, he leaned forward slightly and opened his mouth, then closed it again. He looked at the table and his frown deepened.  
  
Sam realized with a jolt that he was unsure of himself. She had never seen this before. Obviously she would have to guide the conversation. "I assume this has something to do with that letter?"  
  
Marston hesitated, then nodded. He lifted his arms and folded them across his chest. "It's a little complicated."  
  
"Well, we've got all afternoon." Sam rose from her chair and looked around the room. "Let's get comfortable on the sofa so you can tell me all about it." She secured a hold on his belt as she walked past and towed him across the carpet in her wake. He held back at first but she got her way with a sharp tug.  
  
It was an old sofa, wide and long enough for a large man to sleep on comfortably. From the state of the cushions, it was obvious that large men slept on it often. She sat at the very end and pulled her husband down beside her. "Now let's get cozy so we can talk."  
  
Marston closed his eyes and sank into the sagging upholstery where the back curved into a hump. Through the open windows came the sound of a dog barking somewhere in the neighborhood. The street was quiet at this time of day, just after the height of noon. Sam rested against the scrolled wooden arm, waiting for the conversation to resume.  
  
"That letter I sent your father all those months ago - do you remember it?" He opened his eyes and glanced at her, then closed them again.  
  
She nodded. "You wanted him to take on a job for you. A yearlong job. You said it wasn't woman's work."  
  
"The work wasn't just for me. It would have been for a consortium that I'm a part of along with other ranchers in this state. The chairman is Cal Torken, the man who sent me the letter. WARTHOGS is dedicated to -" He jerked his head around. "Did you say something?"  
  
"No, nothing." She hastily coughed. "What did you say it was called?"  
  
"WARTHOGS. It's stands for Western Australian Ranchers Together Helping Our Government Society." With a scowl, he examined her countenance closely. "It's a very exclusive group."  
  
"Yes, I'm sure. It probably takes a special person to be a WARTHOG." She managed to keep her expression solemn for several seconds, then surrendered. Her laughter seemed to have an adverse affect on his mood. He watched coldly as she took in great gulps of air in an effort to get herself under control again.  
  
"If I might resume?" He waited for her confirming nod, ignoring the strangled noise in her throat that accompanied it. "As I was saying, our group is dedicated to assisting the government of the state in one of its most important functions: the security of private property in the agricultural sector through the pacification of the aboriginal population. We recognize that the government's resources are limited and we try to help in our own way. That's why I tried to hire your father on behalf of the society."  
  
"Wait a minute." Sam suddenly did not feel like laughing. "What do you mean by pacification?"  
  
"Eradication. Removal. Extermination." Marston's face was cold and mask- like.  
  
"How can you talk as if they were vermin?" She was incredulous. "They're people! I can't believe this!"  
  
"They are little better than vermin." His voice grated her ears with its harshness. "They do serious damage to ranchers. They poach our livestock and steal our crops. We are within our rights to protect our interests."  
  
"You wanted my father to hunt down and kill people? Is that what you're telling me?"  
  
"I wanted your father to eliminate a pestilential presence from this state. He would have been well paid for his efforts."  
  
She stared at him in disbelief. She did not know this man. This was not her husband, the man she'd pledged her heart to for the rest of their lives. This was a stranger who talked about killing as if it were a sacred duty. A wave of nausea washed over her.  
  
"You make the same mistake so many people do. You don't know what the aborigines are really like." He rose to his feet and paced across the room. Anger swelled his voice with every word. "It's not possible to civilize them in any way. They'll never be like us. It's war out there."  
  
Sam watched him and struggled to make sense of what was happening. She'd never seen him so agitated. "What was in that letter?"  
  
"Cal was reminding me - in his own unique not-too-subtle manner - that he had not heard from me concerning our project. He wants to meet me in town for a progress report. He suggests the middle of next month." Marston paused by the table. "He doesn't know we're already here. We'll have to stay until then anyway."  
  
"Elliott, we've got to talk about this." She was beginning to feel desperate. "You can't really want to kill so many people. What have they ever done to you?"  
  
"To me?!" In two long strides he was in front of the sofa. She cowered back as he loomed over her. He was pale with rage, his hands trembling, his voice hoarse. "It was aborigines who murdered my parents." 


	44. Childhood Memories and Mature Resolution...

"I was very young at the time, of course, so there's a lot I don't remember at all." Elliott Marston stared at the glass of whiskey in his hand. Sam doubted that he saw it. "On the other hand, there are some unimportant things I remember quite well. Like the cats on board the ship that chased rats. And the first time I saw a kangaroo, I thought it was some strange kind of dog."  
  
Shadows spread across the bedroom carpet as the afternoon sun moved to the other side of the house. The tawny glow shone on the gold strands in her husband's hair. She reached out one hand to stroke it but pulled back, afraid to trespass.  
  
"We joined a large band of settlers heading into the interior. My parents were warned about the danger. The aborigines had been harassing wagon trains for some time but I guess they decided it was worth the risk. We were about six days out of town, not quite halfway to the first station, when we were attacked. Our wagon was at the back of the line. My mother was one of the first ones killed."  
  
He paused to sip his whiskey. Sam slid her hand up his arm to his shoulder, then across to caress his cheek. Turning his head slightly, he pressed a kiss into her palm.  
  
"I have no memory of anything after that, no idea when my father was killed. I'm told that I was found wandering down the track back to town. Apparently I put up quite a fight when someone tried to pick me up." Another sip, then a several more.  
  
"The Torkens were part of our group. Abner and his wife Kate took care of me until we got to the station. I had no other family and eventually the authorities decided to let the Torkens adopt me. I grew up on their ranch."  
  
The glass was empty. He looked around for the bottle and refilled it.  
  
"They were kind to me, in their own way. They were older than my parents and their children were grown up. Except for Cal. He was seventeen then and their youngest child. He lived at the ranch too." With a sudden movement, he gulped down the contents of his glass.  
  
As the dusk chased the remaining light from the room, Marston walked through the desert of his childhood memories. The room gradually filled with the confusion and fear of a boy plunged into a strange environment without his family, too young to really understand what had happened to him. He talked about his fondness for the Torkens, his gratitude for everything they'd done for him and their understanding. The warmth of his tone testified to his sincerity.  
  
In a much colder, restrained manner, he described Cal; the young man older by more than a dozen years, who'd made his boyhood a trial. Practical jokes designed to terrify and apparent juvenile pranks that stopped just short of assault assumed large proportions in these memories. It became clear to Sam that those three years until Cal joined the army and left the ranch had been very traumatic for the young orphan.  
  
"After that I rarely saw him. By the time he'd left the army, I had grown up and moved out on my own. Abner Torken loaned me the money to start up my ranch and allowed me to pay it back in slow stages without interest. Cal didn't like it because he had big plans for their ranch and could have used the money, but his father stuck by our arrangement. He was a good man."  
  
"Was Cal's letter about the money?" Sam's question pulled him back from his thoughts.  
  
"No." He looked around for the bottle again. It was empty. He toyed with his glass as he considered his answer. "Not really. When Abner died, Cal wasn't left with a lot of fund even though Abner didn't leave any debts. Cal made it clear to me that if I had been paying what he called a proper rate of interest then he wouldn't be in such a tight spot. He had a point but I was not going to pay over large sums of money I didn't have either. So it was understood between us that I owed him something but not in a financial sense. When WARTHOGS was founded, it was decided that we would pursue the pacification strategy I told you about. Cal was in charge and I agreed to put the plans into action."  
  
He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms behind his head. "We tried a number of things, working in co-operation with the army and sometimes on our own. We even imported an American named Matthew Quigley, which didn't work out the way it was supposed to." He grimaced. "Remind me to tell you about that some day after I've had enough to drink."  
  
"The letter.?" Sam prodded.  
  
"That letter was a rather pointed reminder that we have outstanding business to take care of. He wants to know how Sam Flanagan is working out. As far as he knows, your father is working on my ranch performing security duties in the area. I never told him about the, uh, situation."  
  
"What are you going to do?" Wariness infused her voice as she watched him closely.  
  
"I'm going to make sure that this mystery about Ches Watters is cleared up, find out who killed Hiram Crabbs, find another security agent to undertake the work that needs to be done, meet with Cal and get him off my back, take you back to the ranch and live happily ever after." He heaved a deep sigh. "That's about it, I think."  
  
"And will we live happily ever after?"  
  
"Yes, we will." He looked straight ahead but didn't seem to see her. "After I've fulfilled my obligations and helped wipe out the aborigines who murdered my parents." 


	45. Who Was the Target?

"Her Majesty's Army, hmm?" Elliott Marston ran his eyes over the list. "You're right, none of the others look feasible."  
  
"But why would an officer want to kill you?" Sam Marston propped her chin on her hands and watched the play of candlelight on her husband's hair. "Do you have any enemies?"  
  
The remains of a late dinner lay between them on the table. Their conversation had been interrupted by the return of an aggrieved Niall, determined to reinstate himself in their deliberations. All serious discussion had been postponed until he could be successfully put to bed. After three abortive attempts to rejoin them, he was finally asleep.  
  
Marston tilted the paper to get more light. Sam watched him silently. Her anguish of the afternoon had subsided. She felt calmer now that she knew more about her husband's past. Her path was clear before her. His strong feelings about the death of his parents would have to be overcome and she was sure she could help him do it. It would be her biggest priority once this other nonsense was cleared up. The thought of what their future would be like if he continued to shoulder his burden of bitterness was too bleak to contemplate.  
  
"Everyone has enemies, darling. This is Australia." He dropped the paper and stared into the middle distance. "I'm inclined to think that Latham isn't our man. He's too focussed on making money and I'm one of his investors."  
  
"Then we'll have to look at the army. Have you argued with any officers lately?" The idea of Elliott quarreling with anyone was ludicrous; Sam couldn't believe that too many people survived the experience. She smiled at the thought.  
  
"Not that I'm aware of." Marston narrowed his eyes at her expression and pointed an accusing finger. "And what are you smiling at, young lady?"  
  
"The idea of officers plotting to remove you from the world." She tossed her head back with a laugh. Her long blond hair swished through the air. "It's so melodramatic."  
  
"I won't deny that I've had disagreements over the years with some pretty senior men. They were usually about delivery dates or quantities of mutton and once I was threatened with the loss of a contract. But that's normal for army suppliers and they were not personal disputes by any means." Marston frowned thoughtfully. "So far as I know there is no reason for any army officer to wish me harmed let alone killed."  
  
"So we're not any further ahead, are we?" It came out more discouraged than she intended.  
  
"Yes, we are." He related his conversation with Len in the afternoon. "So it fits that Watters hung out with army men. It's a connection. But I can't help feeling that we're missing something. Let's think about this."  
  
He folded his arms and gazed across the table at her. "Somebody got Ches Watters to hire somebody to kill me. Obviously Watters couldn't kill me himself; that wasn't his style at all. But your father turned him down flat."  
  
"So?" Sam's shoulders tensed and she entwined her fingers together tightly.  
  
"So why didn't he just get someone else to do it? I grant you that your father had quite a reputation but there are other men around who wouldn't have turned him down. And Watters would have known where to find them." Marston leaned forward, his body taut with the excitement of a hunter. "Another thing: why did Watters approach your father in the first place? It was well known that he was in a more respectable line of work. Why did it have to be Sam Flanagan?"  
  
"I see what you mean." The words came out in a slow hiss. "It's as if someone wanted to make sure it was Dad and no one else."  
  
"So this unknown army officer might be someone who also has a grudge against your Dad." Marston lifted his hand and tapped his finger on the table. "It might make sense. Watters' effort to kidnap Liam was an effort to force your father out of hiding." He looked up. "Was it known that your father had suffered a stroke and couldn't work?"  
  
"It wasn't a secret." She frowned in concentration. "Dad didn't mingle much after my stepmother died so we didn't have a wide circle of friends."  
  
"When Belle came to the hotel to visit us - was it really only a couple of weeks ago? - she said that Watters was upset that your father had left. So he knew that he was staying at Lilly's. Why wait until he'd left to try to find him again? What changed?"  
  
"You'd come to town." Sam was almost whispering.  
  
"Exactly." Marston rapped his finger on the table with each sentence. "And things moved quickly after that. So whoever was behind Watters didn't want your father to come out to the ranch to kill me. He wanted me killed here in town. And he knew that your father was sick whereas I am physically fit and not a bad gunman. Which makes me wonder: did this mysterious army man want me killed or your father?" 


	46. A Nagging Memory

"That's good as far as it goes, but it doesn't go very far. Flanagan can't have met very many army officers." Melvin Collins sipped his coffee thoughtfully and looked over the plate of fruit in front of him. He selected one and twisted off the stem.  
  
"Well, not socially, at any rate." Elliott Marston poked at his eggs with a fork. The regimental scarlets of the officer class ornamented the balls and affaires of Fremantle society but fraternization with the population at large was definitely discouraged.  
  
"Dad did a job for the army, over two years ago. It was something to do with thefts from warehouses." Sam Marston gestured with a piece of toast. "Dad found out that some workers were siphoning off supplies to their friends for resale. He put a stop to it. Pretty basic stuff."  
  
"Maybe some higher ups were getting a piece of the action and didn't want it stopped." Collins checked the contents of the coffeepot and refilled his cup. "Army life doesn't pay so well that a man couldn't use a bit more."  
  
"I don't think so. There were no big sums involved. It was more of an ongoing nuisance to the bookkeepers." Sam wiped her fingers daintily on her napkin and looked at her husband. "You're mighty quiet, Mister Marston."  
  
"Hmm? Oh, sorry." He pushed the eggs across his plate and frowned. "There's something on the edge of my memory that just won't surface. And I think it's something important."  
  
"Well, I've got something important for you to concentrate on." Collins set his cup down on its saucer with a decided clink. "The chief constable sent a man to my office yesterday. The authorities are running out of patience. They want to talk to you about Hiram Crabbs and they want to do it soon."  
  
"What did you say?" Marston looked up.  
  
"I told them that you were out of town on a business matter and would come in as soon as you returned. They asked where you were; I told them you were visiting an investor at his private home. That stopped them. They're trying to figure out who it might be and who they might offend if they try to track you down." He finished the fruit and set the core down by the saucer. "By the way, they think Sam is on her way back to the ranch. They don't seem very interested in her."  
  
"Must be rough when you spend your whole career trying not to come down on the wrong side of somebody." Sam stirred her tea lazily. A sideways glance revealed that her husband was not paying attention to the conversation - again. His brows were creased and he stared at something in front of him that was invisible to her.  
  
"Well, thanks for breakfast but I should be getting on to my office." He stood up and shrugged into his coat. "Busy day ahead thinking up more stories for the chief constable."  
  
"Thank you, Melvin." Marston rose and shook hands with his lawyer. "I appreciate everything you've done. I promise I'll get some more contracts soon and give some fat bonuses for your efforts."  
  
With a shout of laughter and a final wave, Collins disappeared through the back door. The sound of a horse and cab receding down the alley immediately followed and gradually diminished.  
  
Silence fell. Marston picked up the teapot and checked the amount inside, then sat down again. Sam watched him closely.  
  
"Well?" She finally said.  
  
"No. Not well." He pushed his plate away and set his elbows on the table. He dropped his chin onto his clasped hands. "Whatever it is that's teasing my memory is important, I know it is."  
  
"Maybe if you don't try so hard, it'll come easier. That happens with me sometimes."  
  
"Perhaps." He looked over at her and smiled. "Where's Niall? It's too quiet."  
  
"He's with Len, listening to stories about the 'good old days' in the army." She began to clear away the dishes. "He's still annoyed with us for sending him to bed the other night. We're probably going to be ignored for a little while."  
  
Marston threw his napkin on the table. "That's fine with me. Just so he knows he's to stay in the house."  
  
"Oh, he knows. Actually I think he'd be afraid that we might do something exciting while he was gone." She set the plates on the sideboard. "Maybe he thinks we're going to hide in a big trunk and sneak out under his nose."  
  
Marston froze, his hands clenched tightly. He stared straight ahead, his breathing suddenly ragged and stentorian. Sam looked around in alarm.  
  
"Elliott?" She ran to his side. "What's wrong? Tell me!"  
  
He came alive again. "That's it! That's what I've been trying to remember! Come on!" With a strength born of sudden enthusiasm, he grabbed Sam and hauled her along the hallway to the stairs.  
  
"Wait! Where are we going?" She concentrated on not stumbling over her feet.  
  
He skidded to a halt on the first landing. "We're going upstairs to our bedroom." He grinned from ear to ear, his eyes gleaming for the first time in days. "And then we'll have some fun!" 


	47. Finding a Connection

"Now where did I put it?" Elliott Marston stood in the middle of the carpet and looked around the room. The carved wooden bedstead with the worn coverlet stood against the wall, the rickety table in the corner and the battered bureau between the windows.  
  
"Put what?" Sam Marston rubbed her wrist.  
  
"Ah, yes, in the trunk." Marston fell to his knees and pulled the rectangular piece of luggage out from under the bed. With a grunt he heaved it on top of the covers. He dusted his hands as he rose. "With all the excitement we've had in the past few weeks, I forgot about it entirely."  
  
A bemused Sam watched him snap open the catches. He rummaged around, carelessly pushing aside piles of clothing until he pulled out a thick envelope wrapped with a shiny covering. "Here we are!" With a grin, he waved it in the air.  
  
"All right, where are we?" She crossed the room to his side and took the package. "It feels like paper inside."  
  
"I believe it is." Marston closed the trunk and replaced it under the bed. "Your father wanted me to have it. I thought it was simply legal documents that he wanted taken care of. There's a marriage license in there, for one thing."  
  
Sam pulled open the covering and began to sort the contents on the bed. "Yes, here it is; from when he married my stepmother. And here's my birth certificate and Liam's. The others must be here too." She tugged at the remaining papers.  
  
"I'm sure they are. But I wonder if there isn't something equally important." He watched her unsuccessful efforts and pulled out his knife. "Let me help." Inserting the tip into one corner, he sliced the covering from end to end with one stroke. The compressed papers burst out of their tight confinement and fluttered to the floor.  
  
Sam retrieved one. "Here's Niall's birth certificate. And my mother's marriage license." She placed them on a pile beside the pillows.  
  
Marston sorted through other papers. "There's some personal letters here. We might have to go through them. A bill of sale. Receipts from buying horses." He tossed them aside. "And what have we got here? Yes!"  
  
She looked up from her perusal of an old letter. Marston held up a single piece of paper, larger than the others, which looked like an official document. It was a thick stock, written in strong black ink and with an embossed scroll at the top.  
  
"What is it?" Sam reached for it. The paper felt stiff and unyielding between her fingers.  
  
"It seems to be a contract between your father and a senior army officer for some work done two years ago last May." Marston shuffled the other papers together into a semblance of order and sat down on the bed.  
  
"Major Henry J. Fotheringham." Sam turned the page over and reread the contents. "Do you know him?"  
  
"The name isn't familiar to me. I might have met him but I doubt it." He punched the pillows into a comfortable position and laid back with his hands behind his head. "Your father must have had many jobs like this one."  
  
"Dozens." Sam seated herself cross-legged on the covers and propped her chin on her hands.  
  
"So why did he keep this one contract? As you said at breakfast, it was a very basic assignment." He narrowed his eyes and examined the ceiling. "Let's assume that we've found at least a link with our mysterious army officer. He couldn't have had a grudge against me if we didn't know each other. How about your father?"  
  
"Dad never spoke about it. He would have told me if there had been any problem." Sam picked up the loose pile of paper and began to fold them up carefully.  
  
"So it may be a dead end." Marston sighed. A vision of being holed up at Belle's for weeks on end stretched out in front of him.  
  
"Or it may not. Here's something." Sam pulled a piece of notepaper from the very bottom of the pile. A few brief lines were written in a bold hand with a name scrawled across the bottom of the page. "It's just some instructions about getting access to a warehouse but it's signed by another army officer."  
  
"Who is it?" Marston propped himself up on his elbows and craned his neck to read the paper.  
  
Sam squinted at the signature. "I think it says 'Major R. Ashley-Pitt.'" 


	48. Some After Hours Banking

"This is stupid." Melvin Collins jammed his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders against the rain. "Let's go have a drink and warm up."  
  
"No, it isn't and we'll have one later." Elliott Marston pulled his hat lower over his eyes. It was an effective enough disguise in the pale glow provided by the gaslights on the sidewalk. "Come on."  
  
It was the end of a long, frustrating day. Sam Marston's discovery of the warehouse note had prompted a thorough examination of all the remaining papers, with disappointing results. After the personal and family documents had been set apart, they were left with more receipts, two other contracts and a handful of yellowed newspaper articles. Most of them were stories or obituaries of men whom Sam knew to be her father's friends but she wasn't able to identify all of them.  
  
The name of Major Rodney Ashley-Pitt was an unwelcome surprise. For the rest of the day, Marston was withdrawn and silent, going over in his mind the history of their relationship over many years. He was unable to think of any reason why the major would have wanted him harmed or dead. It was simply irrational.  
  
After hours of fruitless pondering, Marston made up his mind. It was time to take action and shake some answers out of someone.  
  
"What if he's not home?" Collins grimaced as the rain trickled under his collar. He stepped closer to the fence for shelter. "Or in bed? He's an old man. He might not be up this late."  
  
"We'll just have to take our chances. And I'm not afraid to wake him up." Marston ran his hand over the latch in the gate. "Now be quiet. I have to concentrate."  
  
The lawyer subsided into a worried calm. Marston lifted the iron lever and pushed open the door carefully. He peered into the darkness of the garden. There was no light from the kitchen or the back rooms, although a window on the second floor was illuminated. Walking through the yard on this moonless night would be a challenge.  
  
Marston straightened up and nodded. "All right, I'll go first. You wait here and keep an eye - "  
  
"You know what Elliott? I read a book where a guy had to go through a real dark place just like this!"  
  
At the first sound of a strange voice, Collins sprang into the air and fell against the wooden planks of the fence with a loud thud. He pawed the air with his hands ineffectually before slumping almost to his knees. Marston was quicker. He spun around and leaped on the new arrival, pressing him back to the other side of the lane. With one savage jerk, he tore the other's scarf from his face.  
  
"Niall!" Marston was hoarse with shock. "What the hell are you doing here?"  
  
"I followed you. I thought you'd need extra help on this case." The boy looked up with a huge smile, wincing slightly under the pressure of Marston's grip. "Anyways, like I said, in this book - "  
  
"Never mind the book." Marston forced himself to release his captive. The temptation to warm his brother-in-law's backside was too attractive. "You go back to Belle's place right now. Your sister will be worried sick."  
  
"No, she won't. And besides, if I do go back, Len or somebody will wake her up to tell her I was out and then she'll see that you're out too and then she'll get even more worried and she might do something dumb like cry or something and then I'll have to tell her where you are so's she won't come looking for you." Niall took a deep breath and exhaled noisily.  
  
Collins stared at him with amazement bordering on awe. Marston struggled for speech.  
  
Niall leaned forward and said in a kindly tone, "If we're going in, we'd better hurry. The light upstairs just went out."  
  
"We're going to have a long talk about this tomorrow, do you understand?" Marston hissed through clenched teeth. He grabbed the boy's arm and thrust him at the lawyer. "Hold onto him for me. I'll go in alone. Don't let him go for a second!"  
  
Collins nodded and laid a firm hand on his smug prisoner's shoulder.  
  
Marston slipped into the garden and closed the gate behind him. Surfaces shiny from the rain surrounded him even in the dark. He took small steps along the path, careful to tread noiselessly on the grass rather than the gravel. The kitchen door loomed up ahead. Under the small protection of the eaves, he examined the lock.  
  
It was an old-fashioned one, with a simple mechanism. A few pokes with a small instrument that had proved helpful in other situations and he was gratified to hear a sharp "snick" as the bolt moved back. A quick turn of the knob and he was in the kitchen.  
  
His breathing was loud in his ears as he shut the door behind him. For a few tense moments he could hear nothing else and imagined being surprised by an occupant who heard him. But no one appeared out of the darkness.  
  
His memory of the house was not recent but he seemed to recall that the main feature of the first floor was a long central hallway with rooms opening off it on both sides. The staircase began just inside the front hall. He pushed open the first door and headed for his quarry.  
  
A thick carpet covered the floors and the stairs. Moving lightly on the balls of his feet he paused on the second floor landing and counted the doors until he determined which one possessed the recently lit window. He reached for the door knob, counted to ten and entered the room.  
  
The bed was against the near wall. Even in the gloom, Marston could make out the lump under the covers as he pulled a long, thin blade out of his pocket. Silence was forgotten. In two strides he was across the room and kneeling on the mattress. His left hand covered his victim's mouth and his right held the blade to the unfortunate's throat.  
  
The sleeper woke up immediately, clawing at his restraints. Marston shifted to prevent him from gaining any purchase to free himself. The struggle was short and one-sided. Finally the man lay back, his chest heaving.  
  
Marston smiled evilly. "Good morning, Mr. Connaught. I find I have pressing banking matters to discuss with you tonight." 


	49. Unwelcome Truths and Extra People

"For the last time, I don't know anyone named Ashley-Pitt!" Jasper Connaught passed a weary hand over his brow. "And the first time I heard of Ches Watters was when two police constables came looking for you. Now please leave me alone!"  
  
Elliott Marston leaned back in the banker's comfortable leather chair and stared at his reluctant host. Maybe it was the lateness of the hour or the pathetic spectacle of the old man cowering under the blankets with his nightcap askew. But whatever the reason, Marston was aware of an uncomfortable feeling.  
  
He believed the banker was telling the truth.  
  
And that was very inconvenient right at the moment because a banker who was telling the truth was also a banker who could not be blackmailed into remaining silent about this nocturnal visit. The situation required an inordinate amount of tact and diplomacy if not outright emotional manipulation.  
  
"Jasper, we've been friends and associates for many years." He assumed a hurt expression calculated to appeal to the hardest conscience. "I realize these are unorthodox methods but can you blame me after our last meeting?"  
  
"No, I can't." Connaught flushed and looked down at his hands, plucking nervously at the coverlet. "I told you then I had no choice. And I still don't."  
  
"Why don't you? Tell me about it. Maybe I can help." He thought about Melvin Collins and Niall standing outside in the rain for the past hour but shoved the image aside ruthlessly; the chance to discover some small part of the truth might not come again.  
  
"You can't! For God's sake Elliott, do you think I turned you over to the police for some whimsical reason?" The banker closed his eyes and rocked back and forth in the bed. "The day after the police came to me asking questions about you, after this Watters was shot, I received a note in a hand I did not recognize. It said that I should be more co-operative with the police in the pursuit of justice. Otherwise I would suffer. That was all."  
  
Marston regarded him with an unblinking stare. "No explanation of how you would sufferer?"  
  
"No. But the next day three men - major customers - all came to me saying they'd heard that the First Commercial was in trouble and they might want to consider pulling their money out. They had heard the rumour from different sources. I managed to reassure them. But other men came to me in the following days." Connaught smiled bleakly. "Had even half of them acted and withdrawn their funds, I would have been finished. After three days of fighting these brushfires, I received another note from the same person asking me if I was now willing to co-operate."  
  
Marston said nothing. The idea that he had such a powerful enemy was a sobering one.  
  
"Well, I won't deny it, I was convinced. When you came to see me that day, I sent a messenger to the police while you were in my office. My clerk was instructed to make sure they'd wait in the street." Connaught hesitated. "You must believe me, Elliott, I hoped you'd get away before they came. And I couldn't be upset when that bandit tried to rob the bank because it allowed you to get away. That was good luck for you."  
  
"Well, that's one way to describe it." Marston smiled in remembrance. "Have you received any more messages from your mysterious correspondent?"  
  
"No." The banker sank back on his pillows. The memory and confession seemed to exhaust him. "And there have been no more customers coming to me about withdrawing their money. I thought the whole nightmare was behind me, until your visit tonight."  
  
Marston sighed. It seemed that his efforts to solve this puzzle simply resulted in even more convolutions. He could see no alternative but to approach Ashley-Pitt directly and question him.  
  
***  
  
"Mr. Collins, I think we should go in and help Elliott." Niall managed to infuse the suggestion with so much enthusiasm that it sounded like the first time he'd proposed it rather than the ninth.  
  
"I don't think so, Niall." Collins had lost his tolerance for enthusiasm some time ago. "We don't know the house and would only get lost in the dark. We'll stay right here."  
  
"Well, I'm cold and the rain won't stop." The boy fidgeted restlessly. "And I want to know what's going on."  
  
"That," said a grim voice out of the darkness. "Is exactly what I want to know, too." 


	50. A Shot in the Dark

Splat! The trousers clung to the wall for a moment, then slid slowly to the floor. The shirt sailed over the bed in a perfect arc. Naked and shivering on the carpet, Niall Flanagan handed over his socks.  
  
"Now get into that tub and scrub all over." Sam Marston dropped the bar of soap into the water with unsubtle emphasis. "Or I'll do it for you." The boy scrambled to obey. His sister gathered up his clothes and began to hang them on the backs of chairs in front of the fire.  
  
"You're still angry." Elliott Marston leaned against the doorjamb. It was a strategic vantage point, offering a full view of the room as well as safe retreat. Both were important to him at the moment.  
  
That the night's excursion had been unproductive he'd known even as he made his way back through the garden to the lane. But the true depths of the failure only became apparent when he discovered that his reluctant lawyer and his excited young brother-in-law had been joined by a third person: his irate wife.  
  
Who apparently was not speaking to him. With the exception of one scorching glare before they began to walk back to Belle's, Sam had not favored him with any recognition at all. And the temperature had been steadily dropping ever since.  
  
"Niall, as soon as you're finished, I want you to dry yourself off and go to bed." Sam finished spreading out the wet clothing. "We'll take care of the tub in the morning."  
  
"I want to -" Niall began. She turned to look at him. He stopped and hurriedly resumed scrubbing.  
  
"We'll see you at breakfast, Niall." Sam spoke gently. "Not one minute before. Good night."  
  
Marston stepped back quickly as she passed through the door. He pulled the door shut and followed her down the hall into their room. The covers were thrown back on the bed and a nightgown was on the floor, mute testimony to the rapidity with which its owner had dressed. Sam was sitting at the table, her head propped on her hand. The lamp cast shadows over her features.  
  
He closed the door and hesitated, trying to gauge her mood. She didn't seem angry at the moment but it was possible that she'd simply moved to a higher state of rage. Perhaps a neutral comment would be best.  
  
"I'm satisfied that Jasper Connaught doesn't know anything that can help us." He slipped into the other chair at the table. "He certainly couldn't give me any names. So our next step should be to - "  
  
"Don't, Elliott." It came out in a tired, dispirited voice. She didn't even lift her head.  
  
"Don't what?" He frowned, not liking her tone at all.  
  
"Don't talk about 'us' and 'we' and 'our' unless you really mean it." She finally looked at him. "Do you know how I felt when I woke up and you weren't in bed? Not only not in bed but also not in the house?"  
  
"I didn't want you to worry, darling." If it sounded lame to him, he could imagine how it seemed to her. "It could have been dangerous. I want you to be safe."  
  
"I want you to be safe too. Or didn't that occur to you?" Her passive state was finally shattered. She rose to her feet and paced the carpet. "I think I've shown that I can keep my head in a tight spot. A couple of times it's even helped you out of trouble."  
  
Marston grimaced as he thought of his visit to the bank and her escapade as a robber. Even now the incident had the power to curdle his gut with fear but he had to admit that she was right.  
  
"You're right. I should have told you where I was going and what I planned to do. It won't happen again." He felt it was a heroic admission and waited for her reaction.  
  
"You mean you should have taken me along." She looked over her shoulder at him from her position at the window.  
  
"I meant no such thing." A man had to take a stand somewhere. He remembered distinctly that his marriage vows had said something about cherishing and protecting. Hers had mentioned obeying and honoring but he felt it would be a bad tactical move to bring up that subject.  
  
She turned fully around and put her hands on her hips. Whatever she started to say was interrupted by a fusillade of gunfire in the street below. Behind her the glass shattered and sprayed the vicinity with needle- like shards. Sam had only time to scream once before she fell to the floor in a heap. 


	51. A Friend in Need

"Now then, little lady." The doctor smiled professionally as he snapped his instrument case shut. "You just lie back and keep still and there's no reason you can't go downstairs for breakfast in a few hours."  
  
Propped up against a bank of pillows, Sam Marston smiled back. "Thank you doctor. It was so good of you to take time away from your - activities - to attend to me."  
  
"No trouble at all, my dear." The doctor picked up his bag and gestured in dismissal. "I always carry this with me wherever I go. It was just lucky that I was on the premises tonight."  
  
At the table, Elliott Marston dropped his head into his hands and groaned. The doctor glanced at him on his way to the door. "If you want my professional advice, sir, I would suggest a good stiff shot of the whiskey Belle keeps locked away in her private cupboard. And you should have it as soon as possible."  
  
"Thanks again, doctor. I'll make sure he gets it." Sam waved with her good arm. The doctor nodded affably and departed, shutting the door behind him.  
  
Sam lay back with a sigh and closed her eyes. The silence was blissful especially following two hours of pandemonium with hysterical women, a frightened little brother, strangers poking and prodding, pain and blood. And just when she was preparing to give her husband total what-for over being left out of his midnight activities. She wondered if she was up to resuming the discussion. Cautiously she shrugged, then gasped as raw pain scored her shoulder.  
  
Marston looked up quickly. "What? What is it?" He was out of his chair and across to the bed in two strides. Minute particles of glass crunched under his feet. "Don't move! I'll get the doctor again!"  
  
"No!" Sam grimaced as the pain faded to a dull ache. "Don't get the doctor. It's just a little twinge." She smiled inwardly. All this fuss because a bullet grazed her shoulder. How would he react if she'd actually been shot?  
  
"I thought we'd be safe here. Obviously our mysterious someone has found us. We have to make some plans." He turned away and stared out the glassless window at the street, his face drawn and pale in the grey dawn light. "Whoever did this will pay for it." His fists clenched at his sides.  
  
"Elliott, you don't know that it was the man you're looking for. It was probably just some fool who'd had too much to drink and decided to play with his gun." She relaxed carefully into her pillows. "Believe me, it happens a lot around here."  
  
"I had a chance to talk to Len while the doctor was with you. He was outside within seconds of hearing the shot." Marston did not look around but his jaw tightened. "He said that whoever fired that shot disappeared almost immediately. Does it seem the sort of behaviour of someone who was merely drunk and disorderly?"  
  
"No, it doesn't." Sam bit her lip, then examined his taut stance pensively. "What are you going to do?"  
  
"I'm not sure yet." Marston finally glanced at her, then away again. "I'll have to -" A rapid knocking was heard below. He stuck his head through the window. "It's Collins. Just the man I want to see. He doesn't seem to have got any more sleep than we did."  
  
Footsteps hurried along the hall to the front door and the knocking ceased. Male voices filled the hall. Marston crossed the room and opened the door. Melvin Collins appeared at the top of the stairs, looking tired but pleased.  
  
"Good morning, Elliott. I've just heard the news from the old man at the door." He nodded at his client and entered the room. "Mrs. Marston, my sympathies."  
  
"Thank you, Melvin." Sam smiled graciously. "We were just discussing the whole affair. Elliott thinks that it was no accident." Collins paused before sitting down at the table and looked a question at his host.  
  
Nodding, Marston shut the door. "I don't want to take our safety for granted. We'll have to be more aggressive in our pursuit of this person. From what Connaught said last night," He slid a sideways glance at Sam, wary of her reaction. "This man has a great deal of influence in the community and isn't afraid to use it."  
  
Sam's face was grim. "Why don't you tell us what he said?"  
  
"It wasn't much, really." Marston pulled a chair away from the table and sat down. He related succinctly his discussion with the banker in the latter's bedroom. No one spoke for some time after he finished.  
  
Finally Collins tapped the table with his finger. "That's very interesting. But you have allies too, Elliott. And actually that's what I wanted to tell you. When I got home, I found a message waiting for me from Mr. Calbert Torken. He's just arrived in town and says he's supposed to meet with you. He assumed that you would get in touch with me first thing and wanted to leave his address with me." The lawyer reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded paper.  
  
Marston reached across the table for the note. "This is a bit of luck. Cal and I aren't the greatest of friends but I can count on him for help. Now I've got someone on my side." 


	52. Cal Torken Takes Charge

"So you've been in town all this time." The speaker paused to push a fork laden with potato into his mouth. His jaws chewed in a ponderous manner that suggested the movement of tectonic plates.  
  
"Yes." Elliott Marston smiled tensely as he pushed the meat to the edge of his plate. The mutton was grey and left a trail of pinkish juice on the china. He longed for some mint jelly.  
  
They were the only two people in the back of the dining parlour of the hotel. Heavy dark wood predominated with faded red velvet hangings over the door. Although the day was bright and sunny, Marston felt as if he were sitting in the rear of a deep cave.  
  
The Palmerston Hotel was one of the oldest establishments in Fremantle. Built in the days when the commercial life of the town depended on access to the harbour, it had been left behind as the business district moved further west. The guests of earlier days had been plain, rough men with no refinement or polish and who did not feel the lack. For them, the Palmerston was a comfortable place.  
  
Calbert Torken was just such a man. A large, robust sheep farmer who had scraped a living from the land, he felt no wonder at his success and no compassion for another's failure. He looked out at the world through mud- colored eyes that noticed nothing that did not affect him personally. His needs were simple and uncomplicated: hearty meals, a warm bed and a solid house. His desires were few: to possess a great quantity of money, to be able to look about him and know that all the land to the farthest horizons belonged to him, and to make sure that nothing inhabited that land that was not his as well.  
  
Since these needs and desires were few, he was able to focus his full attention on them. And he would go to any length to fulfil them.  
  
"And you've been wasting your time with some woman when you were supposed to be doing work for the Society." Torken picked up his knife and began to saw through his meat.  
  
"Actually, I got married." Marston gripped his eating utensils tightly. "I'll be sure to pass on your congratulations to my bride."  
  
He should have known better; sarcasm was lost on his companion. "Didn't make any." Torken took another bite and chewed. "And now you got some story about someone trying to kill you. You been out in the sun too long."  
  
Marston decided to relieve himself of anything that might be considered a weapon. He leaned forward, his fingers interlaced tightly and smiled again. "Cal, I know it sounds strange but it's true. Now are you going to help me or not?"  
  
"Got no choice, do I? Always got to help you." The large man flicked a glance across the table. "Gave you the money to get you started, didn't I? Introduced you to the right people so's you could get some customers."  
  
Marston inhaled deeply and let the air out again. "Yes, you did. And I'm grateful for all your help."  
  
"Just don't forget it, boy. Now first thing is to bring this gal and her kid outta that whorehouse."  
  
"He's her brother, not her child and it's not -"  
  
"Yeah, well, whatever he is. Now Molly's in town with me this time cause she's got to see some doctor. Getting worse in her head. Can't sleep and always hears voices, she says." Torken shoved his empty plate aside and put his elbows on the table.  
  
"I'm sorry to hear that." Said Marston sincerely.  
  
"Point is, we're staying in a house this time. So you bring your two over to us and we'll get to the bottom of all this nonsense." He belched. "What do you say?"  
  
"It sounds like a good plan." Marston threw down his napkin. "We'll be there this afternoon. You're sure it won't be too much for Molly?"  
  
"Nah, she'll be all right. Spends too much time in bed dreaming of nothing much. Just don't pay too much attention to what she says. It don't make much sense sometimes."  
  
"I'll let Sam know. And thank you, Cal." Marston looked away from his companion and gazed out the window into the street. Despite the warmth of the day his skin felt clammy.  
  
"You're welcome." Torken belched again. "And then there's no more excuses for not gitten' on with our work. Got that?" Just for a moment a hint of menace vibrated in the air. 


	53. Plans for Sam and Niall

"It don't bother you that your old man was a hired killer?" Cal Torken stared at his guest over a tumbler of whisky.  
  
Sam Marston smiled with brittle courtesy and did not reply. On the sofa beside her, Elliott Marston held his own glass with white-knuckled intensity.  
  
It had not been an easy day, even before their arrival. He'd had to expend considerable persuasion just to get his family through the door. "Elliott, I'm still not sure about this." Sam Marston had looked up at the house dubiously. "If Mrs. Torken is ill, then she really isn't going to want strangers around."  
  
"It won't be for long, darling. A couple of days at most." He pulled the trunk out of the carriage and headed for the door. "Besides, Belle's place isn't safe anymore."  
  
"Yes. I suppose you're right." Her tone subdued, she pulled off her hat and toyed with the ribbons as she followed him to the porch.  
  
Of course, he couldn't really fault her lack of enthusiasm. The place had obviously been designed by an architect with a morbid aversion to natural light. Walking into the front hall had plunged them into a twilit gloom even though it was barely noon.  
  
Nor was the décor an inducement to linger in any of the rooms. Heavy wooden chairs and sofas were beached in the front parlour like forlorn sea creatures stranded on shore. A murky haze of dust wafted through the air and obscured the colours of most of the surfaces. The risk of fire from cobwebs wreathing the gas jets on the wall was ever present.  
  
"Oh, Cal." Molly Torken's hands fluttered feebly in the air. "I'm sure dear Sam's father wasn't a -"  
  
"Lot you know about it." Torken tossed back his drink in one gulp. "That's why Elliott was supposed to hire him. Course he mucked it up. He always does."  
  
Sam's facial expression did not change but the banked fire in her eyes began to smoulder. Marston jumped into the conversation. "Melvin Collins and I will go visit Major Ashley-Pitt this afternoon and get to the bottom of this whole thing." Marston reached under the table and squeezed his wife's hand. Sam curled her fingers around his and held on tight. "Then we'll take what we have to the chief constable's office."  
  
"Elliott, it sounds so dangerous. Maybe you better stay here." Molly pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. "It would be safer."  
  
"Now Molly, there's no need to worry." Elliott smiled at her with genuine affection. "I can take care of myself. It will give you and Sam a chance to get to know each other."  
  
"Yes, I'd like that." For a moment the careworn lines were smoothed away and a younger, happier Molly Torken smiled across the table at her guests. "And that nice young man, your brother." Sam smiled back.  
  
"Well, that's settled." Marston pushed back his chair. "I'll be on my way then. See me to the door?" He raised his brow at his wife and tugged her to her feet, not letting go until they were well down the hall out of earshot of the others in the dining room.  
  
"All right, Mr. Smooth Talker, I'll stay here and be good." She watched him shrug into his coat. "But I don't have to like it."  
  
"No one said you did, darling. Just don't put any strain on that arm and keep your brother out of trouble." He checked his gun carefully and adjusted his belt before looking up with a grin. "If you can't do both at the same time, tie him up."  
  
"Good advice." She allowed herself to be pulled into a hug. "Elliott, this place is very creepy. Hurry back."  
  
"As soon as I can. Ashley-Pitt will be able to tell me something, hopefully a name, and that's all I need for the police." He rested his chin on the top of her head as she snuggled into his shirt. "I know what you mean about the house. Their ranch isn't much better in terms of atmosphere. Cal tends to fill up a place, if you know what I mean."  
  
Sam shivered. "Yes, I do."  
  
"And I do want you to get to know Molly. She hasn't had an easy life but she's really a lovely woman." He pulled her head up for a kiss. Silence fell for several minutes.  
  
Finally he pulled away. "I'm off. Be good, woman."  
  
Footsteps ran down the hall toward them. "Elliott! Where are you going? Can I come too?" Niall appeared, breathless with haste.  
  
"Goodbye!" Marston pushed open the door and disappeared.  
  
Sam caught her brother and held him back. "No you don't, young man. We've got responsibilities right here."  
  
Niall fought to escape her grip. "But I want to be with Elliott!"  
  
"Yes I know, dear." Sam blinked away unwelcome tears. She swallowed several times before she continued. "So do I." 


	54. Breaking in On Buttershaw

It was one of those burning winter days that are found only in Australia. No cloud marred the empty perfection of the sky and no breeze disturbed the acrid heat. Carts and wagons rattled along, sending up a haze of vision- obscuring dust. Elliott Marston cursed under his breath as he peered across the street at army headquarters, trying to see who was coming and going.  
  
The door opened and two soldiers stepped out, their red coats almost pulsing in the heat. Immediately behind them was Melvin Collins. The lawyer looked carefully around, then crossed the road to join his client waiting around the corner of the feed store. They retreated some steps down the alley so as not to be seen by the passing traffic.  
  
"He's not there. According to the sergeant, he's visiting some big shot lawyer on 'personal business'. He didn't know the name." Collins pulled out his handkerchief and mopped his bedewed brow. "I'm all in favour of finding somewhere cool to wait."  
  
"It's got to be Buttershaw." Marston nodded grimly. "Should we join them?"  
  
"What? Go to Buttershaw's office?" Collins looked around, alarmed.  
  
"Of course. I'm in the mood for battle." He edged cautiously to the front of the alley again, checked the street for familiar faces, then nodded. "All clear. Let's go."  
  
Collins groaned but followed.  
  
Most people had the good sense to be off the street so they had the sidewalk pretty much to themselves. Collins had to move smartly to keep up with his friend whose strides were eating up the distance to the lawyer's office. Marston didn't notice. His thoughts were fixed on the confrontation ahead and he smiled with merciless pleasure.  
  
The offices of Wilson, Tait and Buttershaw occupied one of Fremantle's finest buildings. Six stories high and faced with carved granite blocks, it exuded an air of prosperity and stolidity that was meant to reassure clients and intimidate opponents. It had absolutely no effect on Elliott Marston as he pushed through the great wooden doors and up the grand staircase.  
  
"Good afternoon! May I help you?" The clerk at the front desk looked up at his entrance, his premature jowls wobbling slightly. He rose from his chair and progressed to the waist-high railing that separated the public area from the lawyers' offices.  
  
"No, thank you." Marston paused briefly to scan the names on the doors along the wall. Behind him Collins almost fell through the door, panting heavily. "I can help myself." He found the office he wanted and kicked open the small gate with one foot.  
  
"Sir!" The clerk congealed on the spot at the temerity of this action. Not until Marston was outside Buttershaw's office did he regain control of his limbs. He sprang forward. "You can't go in there! Mr. Buttershaw is with a client."  
  
"Don't bother to announce me. We'll let it be a surprise." He turned the knob with one quick motion and thrust the door open. The clerk screeched in agony as Collins barrelled past him, treading on his foot in the process.  
  
The office was large and elegant, an appropriate setting for one of the state's most powerful lawyers. Leather-covered books filled shelves that reached from the floor to the ceiling. Plush armchairs stood in front of a magnificent mahogany desk. From his leather chair, Robert Buttershaw looked up at the noise. "What the hell?" He exclaimed as he came to his feet in surprise. "Marston! What do you want?"  
  
"A few precious moments of your client's time, Mr. Buttershaw. And an end to this farce." Marston did not slacken speed as he marched across the thick red carpet. One of the armchairs was occupied, although its high back precluded visibility. He made it to the desk and turned to look down at the client. "And now, Major -"  
  
He stopped dead. A small, plump man in a plain black frock blinked up at him. Of the bright red coat of the British army officer class, there was not a sign. 


	55. A Chilling Family History

"And then he looked up at Dad and said, 'But you said it was all right before!'" Sam Marston threw up her hands in a comic gesture of despair. "So what else could Dad do but surrender?"  
  
Molly Torken clutched her hand to her collar and laughed; small, genteel chuckles that ripened into hearty whoops until her eyes were wet with tears. Sam looked at her with pleasure until she regained control.  
  
"Oh my dear, I haven't enjoyed myself like this in ever so long." She wiped her eyes with the edge of her apron. "Your poor parents!"  
  
Sam grinned. The afternoon was proving to be a revelation: the quiet, timid Molly had bloomed into a charming hostess with a wonderful sense of humour and an unlimited appetite for stories about younger brothers. It seemed like weeks since she'd been so carefree herself and she was grateful to the older woman. For several minutes there was no sound in the room but laughter.  
  
Finally Molly picked up the teapot and carefully poured out the steaming beverage. "Now would you like want milk or lemon, dear?"  
  
"Milk, please." Sam picked up the small silver spoon and stirred the contents of her cup. "I feel so guilty for descending on you like this, especially with Niall. It's so good of you to take us in."  
  
"Oh my dear, I won't hear such talk! It's been so lonely -" She bit her lip and looked down at the table. "I mean, with Cal out and about doing business things, there's been no one to.to talk with.and.and." She set the delicate china down hastily and burst into tears.  
  
"Molly!" Sam sat paralyzed for a moment, then came around the table and fell to her knees. She put her arms around the older woman's shoulders and squeezed them. "What is it?"  
  
"Nothing! It's nothing.Just a foolish old woman being silly, is all." Molly turned away and took several deep breaths. Finally she looked back at Sam with a watery smile. "There now, all better! I'll just have my tea and everything will be all right again." She groped on the table for her cup with a shaking hand.  
  
Sam returned to her chair. The sunny atmosphere of only a short time ago was gone as if wiped away by an invisible hand. She sat down slowly, considering how best to find out what was wrong. Taking refuge in sipping her tea, she examined and discarded several options before deciding on a forthright approach. "Molly, does this have anything to do with what you're in town to see the doctor about?"  
  
Molly gasped, her face blanching. Tea splashed down her frock as she clutched her cup convulsively. "Yes! Oh Sam, I'm so scared! There's nothing wrong with me but I know that Cal will make the doctor give me pills.medicines.that make me see things that aren't really there and hear terrible voices." She looked old suddenly, and vulnerable.  
  
"Why would Mr. Torken do that?" Caution was needed. If Molly really was ill, she might not even know it.  
  
The older woman blinked several times, then carefully put down her cup. "Last year Cal's mother died. She'd been living with us for some time because she was poorly and I took care of her. Something was bothering her - in her mind, like - and she sometimes couldn't sleep. I'd hear her crying when she was supposed to be napping in the afternoon. I asked her and asked her what the matter was but she wouldn't tell me. Until the very end."  
  
Molly looked over her shoulder at the door. Finally she leaned forward and lowered her voice to a bare whisper. "Cal wasn't in the house. She called me into her room and told me that she knew she didn't have much time. I thought she meant that she was going to die soon but that wasn't it. She meant that it wouldn't be long before Cal was back and she had to tell me something."  
  
Sam leaned forward as well, her eyes large and questioning. "Something Mr. Torken wasn't supposed to know?"  
  
Molly shook her head quickly. "No, he knew about it. Oh, Sam!" The tears started to her eyes again. "It's the most horrid thing in the world!"  
  
Sam took a tight grip on her patience. "What was it? You can trust me."  
  
"Murder!" Molly reached across the table and grasped Sam's hand with a strength born of desperation. "Elliott's parents.all those years ago.when the Marstons and the Torkens came out here in that wagon train.it wasn't the aborigines." She took a long shuddering breath, pressing Sam's fingers tightly. "It wasn't the aborigines who killed Elliott's parents. It was Cal!" 


	56. Gathering Pieces of the Puzzle

"I thought we had an appointment, Mr. Buttershaw." The plump man squeaked. "Is this man one of your clients?"  
  
"No, Mr. Higgins, he is not." Robert Buttershaw rose to his feet. His leonine aspect was stern as he faced the intruders. "He is known to me, however. Well, Marston, what is it?"  
  
Elliott Marston opened his mouth but no words came out. He felt the reassuring presence of his lawyer behind him and tried again. "I'm looking for Major Rodney Ashley-Pitt. I thought he was here."  
  
"I have no idea who this major is or why he would be here. Now get out of my office." The corporate lawyer resumed his chair and ostentatiously turned away in dismissal. Higgins sniffed moistly and mimicked the gesture with considerably less grandiloquence.  
  
Melvin Collins grabbed his client's elbow. "Come on, let's get out of here." Marston allowed himself to be tugged to the door and into in the reception area. The clerk at the front desk glared at them with all the outrage his employer had been too dignified to reveal. Collins didn't release his grip until they were back on the sidewalk.  
  
"I can't understand it." Marston glared up at the building, as if suspecting it of sheltering his quarry. "Where else could he be?"  
  
Collins carefully steered him down the street. "Obviously at another lawyer's. So let us do what we should have done in the first place and wait for him at his office."  
  
"Humph." Marston snorted but didn't argue.  
  
Afternoon shoppers filled the sidewalks in front of the shops and the two men were forced to the road on more than one occasion. Every minuscule delay fretted Marston. He accelerated his pace, ignoring the irate glares of the shoppers who were forced to jump out of his way. Collins sighed and did his best to keep up.  
  
"When we get there, I'll go in with you." Marston dodged around a large woman with two children attached to her. "The major will definitely see me."  
  
"You know, Elliott, I have a hard time believing that anyone in the army is behind all this." Collins was not as fortunate in his encounter with the woman. She stared after him with outraged dignity. "I went to the army to get you released from jail in the first place. The officers I talked to were very co-operative. Why would they do that if they wanted you out of the way?"  
  
"I don't know." Marston swept his hand through the air in irritation. "If Ashley-Pitt has a personal issue with me, he might not want the others to know about it. Believe me, Melvin, he's our man."  
  
"Maybe." Collins sounded dubious but he dropped the subject.  
  
**********  
  
Molly Torken stared down at her hands lying in her lap. "I was horrified. Cal is a harsh man.sometimes he can be." She flushed. "Violent. I know that myself."  
  
Sam Marston clenched her fists but forced herself to remain silent.  
  
"But murder! At first I thought she was confused or feverish. But she wasn't. She told me everything." She took a deep shuddering breath. "The aborigines did attack the wagon train but the men drove them off. The Marstons were the only people killed but they were at the back of the wagon train and vulnerable so it wasn't surprising. Mother Kate said that she and the other women took care of their belongings until they got to the army station and could work things out. And then she found out what really happened."  
  
Molly's voice broke. For several seconds she struggled to regain control before continuing. "When they were at the station, Abner bought more supplies. Kate didn't know where he got it from and he wouldn't tell her when she asked. They had some words about it and it came out that Cal had taken it from the Marstons' trunks. She was very upset and confronted him with it. That's when he told her what he did. That when the attack was going on, he went to the back of the train and found their wagon unguarded. He knew they had quite a bit of money and he helped himself. Mrs. Marston found him and he hit her. Real hard. He didn't even think about it, just did it."  
  
Sam thought about a four-year old boy left motherless in the great Australian desert and closed her eyes in pain.  
  
"The fighting made everything confusing for a long time. Mr. Marston came back to the wagon and found his wife dead and Cal there. He didn't believe Cal's story and Cal told his mother that he just had no choice. But this time he used a knife. He told the soldiers at the station that it was one of the aborigines who'd broke through the lines and that he'd driven him off. All the soldiers thought Cal was a real hero." Molly smiled crookedly.  
  
"This must have been a terrible thing for your mother-in-law to carry around with her all those years." Sam reached over and grasped Molly's hands.  
  
"It was. She couldn't believe it. Cal told Abner about it but said it was an accident. Abner believed him. You have to understand, the Torkens were very poor. It had taken almost all they possessed just to get a wagon supplied for the trip. They'd lost their other holdings and their older children were grown and gone. They just couldn't afford to turn back. The way Abner saw it, if they took care of Elliott, then it was alright if they used the Marstons' money."  
  
"They adopted Elliott, didn't they?" Sam kept her voice carefully level.  
  
"Yes. Mother Kate put the Marstons's trunks away for Elliott in their attic and just took him into their family. She knew that Cal was rough on him but he went into the army so that didn't last long. She devoted herself to being a mother to him."  
  
"Elliott spoke of her very fondly, Molly." Sam tried to smile.  
  
"And that's why Cal wants me to see this doctor of his." Molly buried her face in her hands and her shoulders shook. "Since last year, he won't let me see or talk to anyone because I might tell them. He tells people I'm going crazy, having delusions. He couldn't do anything to me on the ranch because we have maids in the house and there are people around but here in town.if a doctor says I have to be put away."  
  
Sam felt suddenly cold. Why would Torken let Molly be alone with her, of all people in the world closest to Elliott? Unless he had plans for her too.  
  
***  
  
"Just got back a few minutes ago. He's in his office but he brought someone with him." The sergeant looked bored but tried to infuse some courtesy into his voice.  
  
"Thanks, we'll just knock and let him know we're here." Marston nodded his thanks as he and Collins started down the hall. The sergeant went back to his newspaper.  
  
Marston could have found his way to the correct door blindfolded; it was a journey he'd made several times over the years. Last door on the left, very end of the hall. He lifted his hand to knock.  
  
And stopped with his fist in mid-air.  
  
Muffled voices could be heard through the thick wood, then a crash as if a piece of furniture had fallen over. A rapid tattoo of heavy beats followed. The two men looked at each other, then Marston tried the door handle. It was locked. They threw themselves against the door, then a second and a third time. Finally it gave with a splintering crack.  
  
The sergeant shouted from his desk but they were already in the room where they found Major Rodney Ashley-Pitt about to lose his struggle with the large man strangling him with his own lariat cord. 


	57. The Pieces Begin to Fall into Place

"Don't let him know I told you! Cal will be so very upset." Molly Torken cowered back in her chair. Despite the heat of the late afternoon, she was shivering uncontrollably. "I don't want him to be upset with me!"  
  
Sam Marston forced a reassuring smile. "Of course I won't tell him. We're just having a nice cup of tea and a chat. That's all. Everything will be fine."  
  
The older woman sniffed and swiped at her eyes with the edge of her napkin. Sam maintained her pleasant expression but she was thinking furiously. Cal Torken was out for the afternoon and wouldn't be back until dinner. While Elliott had to be told about the awful event in his past, it might be better to wait until they were no longer sharing a house with the Torkens. But then how could she help Molly?  
  
"Pssst!" Sam jumped. The noise seemed to come from the hallway. Niall Flanagan poked his head around the door and hissed again. He dangled a piece of paper in the air then hastily pulled it back. She glanced at Molly, who seemed oblivious to anything outside her fear at the moment, and joined her brother in the hall.  
  
"What is it?" She wasn't sure why she whispered; it just seemed appropriate somehow.  
  
"Guess what I got?" Niall was beaming proudly, grinning from ear to ear.  
  
"Dear, I really don't have time for this." She stopped as he thrust the paper at her. It was a letter in handwriting that seemed strangely familiar. "Where did you get this?"  
  
"I found it in that room." He pointed to the small parlor beside the front door. Sam remembered uneasily that Torken used it as his office.  
  
"What were you doing in there?" She unfolded the letter slowly. It was a plain sheet of poor quality and the ink was smudged at the bottom. There was neither salutation nor signature. Then two names leaped off the page at her. "deer Sir, Ches Watters was my frend. He told me a bunch of stuf cowse we wood drink as frends. If you want me to be close muthd abowt what he was sposed to do then you pay me in gold. Else Eleyot Marston wil heer it furst."  
  
It seemed to Sam that the floor heaved under her feet. She read the letter through a second time and refolded it with shaking fingers. "You had no business going in that room, Niall. Elliott will be very displeased." Her voice was credibly even, she thought.  
  
"No, he won't. He went into that man's house in the middle of the night, didn't he?" Niall was unimpressed. "That's the same kind of letter he got from that man who got himself hung, isn't it? Hiram Crabbs. I think he'd want to know why Mr. Torken got it."  
  
"How do you know about that letter?" She stared at him.  
  
He rolled his eyes with the fond disgust of a brother. "Because I heard the clerk telling him about it, silly. And later on," He gave her a sideways look, then dropped his gaze to the carpet. "I found it on the table in your room. I went in to see if he needed any help packing." There was a touch of defiance in the last sentence.  
  
Sam took a deep, calming breath. She hated to admit it but Niall was correct. Cal Torken had a great deal of explaining to do. A sudden conviction that they had to leave this house took possession of her. She wished that Elliott were back so that he could get them out of there. Her brother tugging on her sleeve reminded her of the immediate issue.  
  
"Regardless of all that, young man, you should not go poking into things that don't concern you." Sam put her hands on her hips and assumed a parental attitude. "It's not a good thing to do."  
  
Niall opened his mouth but before he could respond, another voice came out of the gloom at the back of the hallway. "Your sister's right, boy. It ain't a good thing at all." They looked up to see the large burly figure of Cal Torken appear in the kitchen doorway. "In fact, it can be downright unhealthy."  
  
******************************  
  
"The whiskey's in the bottom right drawer, Elliott. Help yourself." Major Rodney Ashley-Pitt gestured feebly at his desk as he croaked the invitation. He lay back on the sofa and dropped his arm, exhausted by the effort. His hair was disarranged, his face still florid and his neck was lacerated with rope burns from his recent experience but he still managed to smile. "Forgive me if I don't join you."  
  
The altercation had been short but deadly. The assailant had already loosened his grip upon hearing the first assault on the door but he didn't have time to make his escape. The major dropped to the floor in a scarlet heap as the stranger pulled a gun from his belt. He was fast but Elliott Marston was faster and the stranger soon joined his victim on the floor.  
  
The three men watched silently as two privates wrapped the dead man in an army blanket and carried him out. Careful scrutiny had failed to disclose his identity. Ashley-Pitt maintained that the man had approached him as he was returning from an appointment, insisting on a private meeting to deliver a confidential message of a personal nature. He'd refused to name the sender until they were alone in Ashley-Pitt's office, at which point he attacked the major from behind with no warning using the cord from his uniform as a weapon.  
  
The sergeant did not reveal by so much as a quiver that he did not believe his superior officer's story. Ashley-Pitt waved away suggestions about summoning a doctor, insisting that he would be fine after a rest. The authority of the police did not extend to the army's barracks and offices but they would obviously have to be informed. The major turned his face away as the sergeant left the room.  
  
Melvin Collins sank onto the bench by the door and downed his drink with one swallow. Marston stood beside the sofa, waiting for the major to open his eyes again.  
  
Finally Ashley-Pitt looked up at him. "I think I know why you're here." His voice was raw and his breathing labored. "You want to know about me and Sam Flanagan."  
  
"That will do for a start." Marston smiled grimly. "Now talk." 


	58. Getting Ready to Finish the Job

"He was my youngest brother, almost fifteen years younger than me. He had his wild streak but he wasn't vicious or bad. Just growing pains." Major Rodney Ashley-Pitt took a sip of water and licked his lips before continuing. "About a year before he - died - he fell in with a bad crowd. Did some dumb things."  
  
Elliott Marston and Melvin Collins watched their shadows lengthen along the floor as the late afternoon sunlight crept through the window. The major's voice got stronger as he talked although he continued to rub at his neck. "One night he and his friends went to a tavern down on the docks. You know the sort of place I mean - thieves and smugglers all doing business there."  
  
The two listeners nodded but Ashley-Pitt wasn't looking. "They thought it might be fun to steal a portion of some smuggler's cargo and sell it themselves. Stupid, I know. Of course they ran into trouble. Some young criminal caught them and a fight broke out. My brother was shot and lingered for over a week until he finally died."  
  
The silence throbbed with remembered pain and no one spoke. Finally Marston leaned forward and gave a gentle prod. "And Sam Flanagan? Where did he come in?"  
  
Ashley-Pitt roused himself with an effort. "Flanagan was working for some of the ship owners whose cargoes had been tampered with. The ruckus involving my brother's shooting attracted attention and he was able to find the killer." His mouth twisted bitterly. "And he let the young bastard go."  
  
Marston sipped his drink. "Did he have a reason?"  
  
"Said he was a young kid, his first time in trouble with the law. New to smuggling too. Flanagan got some fool to hire him instead. Some punishment for murder!" The major clenched his fists until the knuckles gleamed white.  
  
"What did you do about it?" Marston was painfully conscious of the passing of time. The police could arrive at any moment and the opportunity for finding the whole truth would be gone.  
  
"I was just a captain then. And I didn't know the whole story. It wasn't until a few months later that I heard what Flanagan did. Then I was furious. I did what I could to prevent him from getting work for the army. I wasn't always successful." He drained his glass of water and rubbed at his throat again. "But all that is water under the bridge now. Flanagan is dead, God rot him, and my interest in him died as well. What happened today was not because of Flanagan."  
  
Marston frowned. "Does it have anything to do with Hiram Crabbs?"  
  
Ashley-Pitt looked up, puzzled. "Who's Hiram Crabbs?"  
  
******************  
  
"You know that Elliott will be back any time now." Sam Marston backed away from Cal Torken, carefully keeping her brother behind her. "I'm sure that he will punish Niall for going through your papers."  
  
"Nice try, missy." With a sudden movement that completely belied his ungainly bulk, Torken slapped her hard across the face.  
  
Sam's head snapped back and she stumbled into the wall. Niall Flanagan gasped and froze in his tracks.  
  
"Now we're going to go upstairs and wait for Elliott." The large man pulled out his gun and gestured to the stairs. "Move."  
  
Sam and Niall moved. Pushing the boy in front of her, she hurried upstairs and along the hall to Molly's room. The older woman looked up with nervous fright that changed into near panic at the sight of her husband in the doorway carrying a weapon.  
  
"No Cal! I didn't say anything! I swear!" She lifted her hands in a cringing manner that Sam could not force herself to watch. "Don't hurt me. Please don't."  
  
"Sit down Molly. No one's going to hurt you." Torken walked to the window and checked the dusty street. "We're just going to wait for Elliott." He cocked the gun. "Then I'll finish things up. You and the boy sit down and don't move."  
  
"Did you kill Hiram Crabbs?" Sam had to know the answer.  
  
"Not personally. That's what I got men to handle." Torken looked across the room. "I said, sit down!"  
  
Sam took Niall by the shoulders and pulled him to the sofa against the wall. They sat down, hand in hand. She examined the room as carefully as she could while keeping her attention focused on the man by the window. The door was slightly ajar and the same distance away as their captor but they could never make it without at least one of them being shot. Sam did not know how good Torken was with a gun but she thought it best to assume a high level of competence.  
  
"Do you want some tea, Cal?" Molly seemed to have taken refuge in a trance- like state that protected her from what was happening. "It's still hot."  
  
"Not now. Just be quiet and let me think." Torken had resumed staring out the window. Sam kept her arm around her brother's shoulders and squeezed reassuringly. "What are you going to do when Elliott gets here?" She forced her voice to remain steady for Niall's sake.  
  
"Kill him." He glanced over his shoulder. "And you, too."  
  
"But why?" Niall couldn't be restrained. Sam held him back or he would have leaped to his feet.  
  
"Boy, you have surely got a mouth on you. Didn't nobody ever tell you to shut up when your elders are talking?" Torken finally stepped back into the room. "Because I'm tying up loose ends. My wife," He cast a withering glance at Molly. "Has probably explained a little history to you. I got to finish what I started."  
  
"If it's the money, Cal, I'm sure Elliott won't do anything about it. And if he doesn't know about his parents then it would be cruel to tell him." Sam tried to smile. "There doesn't have to be any more killing."  
  
"Girl, I am not surprised that Elliott married you. Just as dumb as he is." Torken seated himself in a chair. The wood creaked ominously under his weight. "Now listen up. What happened years ago had to happen. We needed that money more than the Marstons did and we spent it better. Do you know what they were going to do in the outback? Do you?" For the first time his voice began to rise.  
  
"Be ranchers?" Sam offered, hesitating to rouse his temper.  
  
"No! They were missionaries! They were going to build a hospital and a school for the aborigines. Just like they were people!" Torken scowled and the calm façade of his features shattered. "My family had nothing! And they were going to spend money on those black savages. It wasn't right. I knew it wasn't. And I fixed it. And today I'm going to finish it." 


	59. The Final Piece

"Do you expect me to believe that you didn't know who Hiram Crabbs was? Come off it!" Elliott Marston dropped his calm demeanour and leaped to his feet. Anger propelled him across the room to the sofa where Major Rodney Ashey-Pitt sat.  
  
"Well, I don't." The officer stared stupidly up at him. The action seemed to aggravate his injury; he reached up and began to rub the side of his neck.  
  
"I suppose you don't know who searched my family's rooms at the XXX either?" Marston put his hands on his hips, looming over his quarry. His hold on his temper slipped another notch.  
  
"Oh, that was us. No question." Ashley-Pitt slid down as far as he could to avoid his interrogator. "I ordered a search for any documents that would have my name on them. My men were ordered to search the rooms of the Flanagan family. They couldn't find anything and I thought there were no documents."  
  
"Sam Flanagan gave his papers to me. They were in my room." Marston reflected for a bitter moment on the army activities that his taxes were funding, then returned to the main issue.  
  
The major looked up with a disgruntled expression. "Well, obviously. Otherwise why would you be here?" He sighed, then continued in a calmer vein. "I didn't know that you and the young woman were that intimate or I would have had them look in your rooms too. Well, we live and learn."  
  
Marston took a deep breath and counted to ten. "Major, I sympathize with your personal loss but a man has been killed and I need some answers. Hiram Crabbs came to me claiming to have information about Ches Watters and the next day he was found hanged. What do you know about it?"  
  
"Ches Watters. There's a name I do know." Ashley-Pitt said nothing for a moment, absently rubbing his neck. "Elliott, I'm going to do you a favour and tell you the truth. I don't have to. Even this incident today can be hushed up. I have the power in this town to do it. But the man you shot was sent here by someone else - someone who is tying up loose ends. And I want the bastard stopped."  
  
Marston crouched beside the sofa. "Then tell me."  
  
"I hated Sam Flanagan for letting my brother's killer go. But I would never have done anything about it. That's the truth." He fell silent again, then roused himself. "I was promoted to major after only two years as a captain. I couldn't afford - literally - to do anything to Flanagan and have it traced back to me. And then one day about a year ago, I got a visit from someone who made me an incredible offer. He knew about my brother's death - no real secret - and guessed how I felt about it. He said that he could arrange it so that it would never be traced back to me."  
  
Marston stood up again slowly. Across the room, Melvin Collins leaned forward in his chair, his gaze fixed on the major.  
  
"All I had to do was commission Ches Watters - he wasn't specified but I suggested him and my visitor had no objections - to hire Sam Flanagan to undertake a particular job. The beauty of it was that I would be protected because I wouldn't know what the job was. One of his men would deliver a sealed envelope to Watters after he'd agreed." Ashley-Pitt glanced up warily, trying to gauge his reaction.  
  
Marston was poker-faced. "Go on."  
  
"Well, of course I asked a lot of questions. It was a damned peculiar arrangement. Some he answered, some he didn't." Ashley-Pitt looked around for his glass; he tipped the remaining contents down his throat. "But he promised me that Flanagan would not survive the job. It was too good an opportunity, from my point of view."  
  
"And what happened?"  
  
"After a week of thinking it over, I told him I agreed. I never saw him privately again. At the end of that month, I made contact with Watters and he was willing. I got word back to my - colleague, shall we say? - and his man brought me a sealed envelope to pass on to Watters. The same man, incidentally, whose visit to me today you so fortuitously interrupted." The major reached up and stroked his neck again, rubbing the rawness with the tips of his fingers. "When I handed that envelope over, I felt the greatest sense of peace come over me. Long distance revenge. It was wonderful."  
  
Across the room, Collins looked away to hide his disgust. His client was incredulous. "That's it? That was your entire involvement?"  
  
"Until Watters died, yes. Oh, I won't deny that I was impatient occasionally. I didn't hear anything about Flanagan being killed and I did sort of wonder. But the whole machinery was in motion and there was nothing I could do but wait. Then I went out to your ranch one day and met that cutie -" He broke off at the look in Marston's eyes. "Uh, I mean that attractive young lady with the interesting name. I give you my word I didn't know he had a daughter."  
  
"Never mind that." Marston reached down and took a fistful of scarlet uniform in his right hand. He pulled the major to his feet with one swift tug. "Now tell me the name of this colleague of yours. I want to ask him some questions."  
  
"Go right ahead. I owe him nothing. He tried to have me killed today." Ashley-Pitt gazed at him with steady eyes. It was as if the release of his memories combined with the assault on his person to render him almost insensate to normal emotion. "But be careful. Cal Torken is a powerful man." 


	60. Tragic News for Sam

"You won't get away with this. Lots of people know that we're here." Sam Marston tilted her chin up and level a gaze of scornful contempt at her disagreeable host. "Why don't you -"  
  
"You talk too much. It's aggravating." Cal Torken stopped counting bullets long enough to answer her. "I don't like aggravating women."  
  
"Well, isn't that just too bad." Sam winced. As defiant rebuttal, it lacked a certain something even to her ears. She rushed on. "Elliott has lots of friends in the army. He can have you put away just like that." The sharp snap of her fingers made Molly Torken jump slightly in her chair.  
  
"He won't have them for long." Apparently satisfied with his total, Torken scooped up handfuls of ammunition and replaced it in its cardboard box. "Cause they're likely to get riled when they find him with a dead body again. Yeah, old Elliott's gonna get caught with the late Major Ashley- Pitt lying in a heap on the floor. And there'll be a witness when he makes a run for it."  
  
"You seem to know a great deal about it." Sam eyed him with a wary respect.  
  
Torken set his loaded gun on the table in front of him and leaned back in his chair. He could have been discussing the weather, so informal was his manner. "That's what he did when they found that old relict who poked his nose into too many corners. He'll come back here and I'll be waiting. The witness will follow him all the way. He can tell the police and the army that Elliott was a dangerous man. I'll have no choice when I shoot him."  
  
"And what are you going to do about Melvin Collins?" Sam folded her arms over her chest and tried to emulate the other's nonchalance.  
  
Uncertainty rippled across the smooth flatness of Torken's face. "I'll.have to see." He reached over and twitched a corner of the curtain aside to peer out the window. "He's taking his sweet time."  
  
Sam closed her eyes and tried to think. A thousand ideas flitted through her mind like ghosts. None of them took on any substance before they disappeared into the misty recesses again. She was ready to weep with frustration.  
  
Torken ignored her. "Hard to believe it's almost over now. For over a year I've been doing nothing else but pushing and waiting. Now it's almost done." His voice dripped with complacency.  
  
She forced herself to look at him. "Why? Why are you doing this?"  
  
"Had no choice. Wouldn't have had to do anything if my mother hadn't started getting funny ideas when she got sick. Started worrying over religion and stuff." He spat the word out with contempt. "Then she told Molly here and I couldn't take any chances. And there were some other things too. Elliott's forgotten how much he owes my family. My father got him started by loaning him the money for his ranch."  
  
"You mean he returned the money you stole." Sam couldn't help herself.  
  
Torken's eye had a mean glitter. "I told you before, you talk too much. Now sit over there so's you're out of the way." He gestured to the sofa where Niall Flanagan sat.  
  
Sam walked over and sat down beside her brother. He scooted over until he was pressed against her side, his hand searching for and clasping hers tightly. She smiled reassuringly at him. He leaned over and whispered so quietly that she had to put her ear to his mouth to hear him. "Will Elliott get here in time?"  
  
She squeezed his hand once. "Yes, he will."  
  
The silence that fell was not unwelcome to any of the room's occupants. Torken resumed staring out the window. Molly poured another cup of tea, now tepid and filmy. Brother and sister took what comfort they could from their proximity.  
  
Just when the stillness was becoming oppressive, the sound of several horses could be heard from the road. They were cantering at a steady pace that suggested more than a quiet jaunt was taking place. Torken reached for the curtain just as the noise reached its height outside the window. Suddenly it stopped. The sound of muted voices floated through the window, then the front gate squeaked open. Footsteps crunched up the path to the front door.  
  
Torken wrenched back the curtain and poked his head out the window. "Who's there?"  
  
"Torken? It's me, Ashley-Pitt." The voice sounded unnaturally high and hoarse. "Is Mrs. Elliott Marston there?"  
  
Torken looked back over his shoulder at Sam, as if to check that she was still in the room. "Yeah, she's here. So what?"  
  
"Well, if you want to conduct this business in public, I've no objection." Sarcasm coated the major's words. "I have to talk to her. I have some bad news."  
  
Torken examined Sam once more. He chewed his lower lip for a moment. Finally he leaned out the window again. "Okay, we'll be right down." He stepped back into the room and gestured with his gun. "Let's go downstairs. But remember I've got this."  
  
Sam nodded and rose from her seat. Niall grabbed at her hand but she shook her head warningly. He subsided reluctantly.  
  
It took longer than necessary to negotiate the steps. Torken kept the barrel of his gun against her back all the way down. In the front hall he kept her carefully in front of him. He pulled open the door and stepped behind her again with a quick motion.  
  
Ashley-Pitt walked into the hall and screwed his monocle firmly into place. "Thank you. It's too hot to yell in the dusty street like that." He examined Sam through the glass with an exaggerated eye. "Mrs. Marston? I have some bad news for you."  
  
Sam cleared her throat and prayed she sounded normal. "What is it, sir?"  
  
"Your husband is dead, madam." The major frowned grimly. "He tried to kill me. Another man who had an appointment with me saw him come up behind me and pull out his gun. He got between us and your husband shot him. By that time I had my revolver out and I killed your husband. I've come to break the news personally to you."  
  
"Oh my God!" For a moment blackness threatened to overwhelm her. Bile rose in her throat as she sought her voice again.  
  
"You have my sincere condolences, Mrs. Marston. Despite everything." The major coughed. "And now I will have to ask you and your brother to come with me. You are under arrest as an accomplice and he is wanted as a witness." 


	61. Rescue

It seemed to Sam Marston that a gray mist had enveloped the world. Objects seemed hazy to her eyes while people appeared and disappeared, their voices hazy and indistinct. Only her brother's hand felt real, solid and warm in her grasp as the two of them walked down the path to the street.  
  
Major Rodney Ashley-Pitt walked beside them, occasionally nodding as Cal Torken remonstrated with him. "Your concern is most praiseworthy, Torken, but the lady and her brother are quite safe with me. I bear no grudge. By God, I can scarce believe it happened!" He shook his head sadly. "You think you know a man after so many years and he does something like this. Incredible."  
  
The narrowness of the path kept Torken behind them as they walked. Sam found it hard to concentrate on his words and wondered vaguely what had happened to her fear and anger of only moments ago. It no longer seemed important what happened. Nothing mattered anymore.  
  
"Now look here Major. There ain't no call for you to take Mrs. Marston to that army barracks and it surely ain't no place for a boy." It was not an original argument. Torken had used it in the front hall once his initial surprise had passed. It was not his only reasoning but he returned to it over and over, perhaps feeling that repetition would succeed where reason had not.  
  
The major paid no more attention to it the fourth time than he had to the earlier entreaties. He waved a hand in sorrowful dismissal. "Mrs. Marston is certainly not going to be put in our jail. And nothing will happen to the boy. Now stop interfering, Torken. If you want to help, find the lady a good lawyer. She's going to need one."  
  
Torken spluttered into argument again but Sam ignored him. They were steps away from the street now and over the small gate she could see at least half a dozen soldiers who had accompanied the major. They waited beside their horses, heads down in conversation, not looking at the group walking toward them. Their scarlet tunics looked like splashes of blood and she closed her eyes briefly in pain.  
  
Niall's hand suddenly clutched hers with bruising strength. She opened her eyes and looked down at him. He was staring straight ahead, his breath coming in quick, rapid gasps. At the same moment Torken abruptly ceased arguing.  
  
The major's hand touched her elbow. "Come along now, Mrs. Marston. We've got a horse for you but your brother will have to ride double with someone." He put his hand on the gate latch and gave her a sidelong glance; she was startled to see him wink.  
  
The soldiers came forward to meet them. One of them reached for Sam's arm and pulled her firmly through the gate and over to the nearest horse. Still clinging to her hand Niall followed closely. There was the unmistakable sound of revolvers being released from their catches and then a voice she had thought never to hear again.  
  
"All right Cal, it's over. Lift your arms over your head and Collins here will take your gun out of your belt. I don't pretend to understand your reasons but you'll have enough time to tell me - before they hang you."  
  
The next moment she was being held tightly against a scarlet coat warm from the sun. She reached out and grasped an handful of fabric and embossed buttons to keep from sliding to the ground as her knees gave out. Through a sudden rush of tears she could make out Elliott Marston's face smiling down at her. "Some women just can't resist a man in a uniform. Now let's go back inside and get out of this heat. Ashley-Pitt has enough men to take care of Cal."  
  
In a daze she allowed herself to be turned around and marched back to the house. Niall skipped beside her, running ahead and then returning to her side in excitement. Marston's arm encircled her waist, strong and firm, surely the only thing keeping her upright. She turned her head only once; to watch the major and his men heave Cal Torken into the saddle of the extra horse and begin their slow, relentless procession back to army headquarters. 


	62. Epilogue

"We are so proud of Elliott. He grows bigger and stronger every day and he is not at all afraid of anything. His father says it is good because he will need to be brave as we travel into the outback. The plans for the mission and the school are ready. We will leave in the next ten days. Praise the Lord."  
  
Marston turned over the leaf of the small diary and read the words again. In the past six months he had read some part of the journal every day. He could recite entire pages of it from memory. And to think he had been unaware of its existence for most of his life. A shadow fell across the desk and he looked up.  
  
Sam smiled down at him. "Tea's ready."  
  
He stood up and took the tray out of her hands. "How many times must I tell you to call me first? In your condition," He kicked a stool out of the way and set the tea things on the low table. "You should not lift heavy objects."  
  
"If you have your way, I'll be too weak to lift the baby when he arrives." But she smiled as she sat down and reached for her cup.  
  
He dropped into the armchair and stretched his legs. He could not believe how happy he was. They had returned to the ranch determined to forget that horrible day and had succeeded admirably. Niall threw himself into learning about sheep and soon knew his way around Marston Ranch as well as his brothers, despite their head start of several weeks. The three of them were now fully determined to become sheepmen and never set foot in town ever again. Marston was proud of their interest and enthusiasm.  
  
And Sam's recent announcement had put the final seal on their happiness.  
  
"There was a letter from Molly in the last package." Between sips of the steaming beverage, Sam related the news. "She's happy at her sister's house, being a 'second grandmother' to all the little ones. I'm glad she's content now. It was so hard on her."  
  
"We can put it behind us now." He didn't tell her about the letter he'd received in the same package from town, the one from Melvin Collins describing how Cal Torken was hung in the prison grounds for murder and attempted murder. It was finally over for all of them.  
  
"I'd like to invite her to visit after the baby's arrived. She can give me lots of advice. It's been a lot of years since I helped with babies." She patted her stomach protectively.  
  
"That is an excellent idea. I don't want you to exhaust yourself." He set down his cup and lifted his feet to the table edge, folding his arms behind his head with a contented sigh. "It's so good to be home where it's nice and quiet."  
  
"Yes, dear. But don't relax just yet. Wait until dinner's over." Sam smiled mysteriously.  
  
"Dinner? What's wrong with dinner? You're not doing the cooking are you?" He sat up with a jerk. "I don't want you in that overheated cookhouse any more."  
  
"No, I'm not. But no one could remember whose turn it was and so when she offered to do it herself I couldn't really object."  
  
"No! Please tell me it isn't." He closed his eyes in pain.  
  
Even as he spoke, the front door crashed open and heavy footsteps pounded into the room. "Mister Marston! You got to come quick! It's Lushy and she's decided to make a special dinner for tonight."  
  
Marston looked up with dread. "How special?"  
  
"Well, she told Jake she needed the key to the storeroom for some brandy to make a special sauce and he gave it to her without thinking like and now there's all this smoke and we think you'd better come." Mick leaned against the door and sucked in a lungful of air.  
  
Sam laughed and sat down on the arm of her husband's chair. "Like you said, darling, it's good to be home where it's nice and quiet." She laughed at his groan and kissed him tenderly on the nose. 


End file.
